


Blood, Tears and Gold

by nihilleaf



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: 1920s, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anxiety Attacks, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Misconception of Mental Illness, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-World War I, Summary cliché af, idek what i'm doing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-17 19:38:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 57,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9340124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nihilleaf/pseuds/nihilleaf
Summary: In the middle of the roaring twenties, Newt, an unknown eccentric artist arrives in the city of New York with the hope to promote his paintings. He doesn't expect to find his new source of inspiration in a mysterious man with a troubled past who will confront Newt to his own demons.In a time where everything seems to be stuck in an illusion of brilliance and carelessness, two wary souls cross paths and start to forge a liaison that turns into more than they could've predicted.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a purely self-indulgent fic, it was supposed to be just for my own enjoyment and an opportunity to practice my english, but I was thinking perhaps you'd like it too, who knows? *sweats*
> 
> I'm not sure where this is going, although I have the plot more or less 'shaped' in my head. You can tell me what you think about it and I might continue. English isn't my first language, please bear with me.
> 
> I borrowed the title from one of [Hurts'](https://www.youtube.com/user/HurtsVEVO/videos) awesome songs, check them out. ;)

Newt let out a shuddering breath as he stepped out of the café and waited for the cab driver to pick him up.

Like each time he came to visit New York City, he was greeted by the constant cacophony of honking automobiles, clattering carriages and chattering passers-by. Especially at night the streets seemed to be animated by a burst of sparking energy, as if the city only waited for sundown to remind everyone of its timeless splendor. 

Newt had always been impressed by the sheer diversity this city displayed. There seemed to reign a certain disorder that still managed to be contained by something Newt couldn’t put his finger on; an invisible force that formed a paradoxal symbiosis among its inhabitants, which only added more to the fascination the young man felt towards the city of lights. 

Despite the countless times Newt had visited overpopulated places like New York, he still wasn’t used to being surrounded by myriads of people, and it made him dizzy each time he had to make his way through the moving crowd. Given the fact that he would be staying in the city for quite some time, he knew he had to get acclimated to it, whether he liked it or not. 

At least now there was a great reason for his staying, which he hoped was worthy enough to all his efforts.

Another sigh escaped the redhead’s lips as he tried to rub his clammy hands dry against the rough wool of his coat. It was in the middle of august, however, the nights were cold and humid and a soft but chilly wind blew between the skyscrapers, leaving a smell of smog, seawater and burned leaves in its wake.

When the cab finally arrived, Newt stepped in relieved to sit on a warm seat and before he realized, the cab came to a halt at the given address; a small house in a quiet street framed by an alee of yellow birches. As he stepped out and paid the driver, Newt could already hear from the open windows the contagious and booming laughter of Jacob Kowalski, mingling with Queenie’s and Tina’s giggling, longtime friends Newt was more than excited to meet after so many years of separation.

With a hammering heart, Newt took the stone steps leading him to the door and after a brief hesitation he knocked against the wooden surface. The sound of approaching footsteps followed by a “Coming!” resonated through the hallway, and the face of an incredulous looking Tina appeared before Newt’s eyes as the door was opened and their eyes met. Newt couldn’t help but laugh at her baffled expression and he smiled sheepishly, looking at her from under the frame of his tousled hair.

“Glad to see you too, Teen,” he said, scratching the back of his head awkwardly.

“Newt!”

Tina came out of her stupor and she beamed at him, a big grin spreading over her soft features. Newt had barely time to drop his suitcase when a pair of arms flew around him and squeezed him into a crushing embrace. Newt let out a squeak as he was dragged through the entrance and Tina swayed him from side to side as if they were in the middle of some crazy dance. 

“Newt, oh my God, Newt, I can’t believe you’re here!” Tina sobbed and stepped back, maintaining her grip on his scrawny arms, and her gleaming eyes trailed over his features, studying him intently. “I thought you said you would visit us next year!”

Newt could feel his ears turning red and he looked at her shoulder, squirming under her scrutiny. 

“Well-- as you can see, there is a change of program, and… I was thinking maybe I should make you a surprise? But perhaps I should have written you a letter, at least--”

“Newt, this is the best thing that could ever happen to us. You know how much we’ve missed you,” Tina interrupted him and ducked her head to meet his unsteady gaze. “You should tell us what brings you here this early. I can already see Queenie jump on those famous Egyptian bracelets you always use to bring her, she wouldn’t stop asking when you’d come.”

As if on cue, Jacob and Queenie appeared at the other end of the hallway and both screamed in unison as they recognized the redhead.

“Newt, my little bird!” Queenie squealed and Newt could literally feel Tina’s eye roll at the uttered nickname. 

He let himself be pulled into her arms and was soon after joined by Jacob whose build was big enough to hug both of them. 

“It has been a while, pal,” Jacob laughed to which Newt responded by tapping a hand on his friend’s back.

“I’m so glad to meet you all,” he wheezed under the pressure of their embrace and Tina couldn’t help but shake her head in amusement at the sight. 

“Would you both let him breathe already? At least take his suitcase into our guestroom.”

“Oh!” Queenie clapped her hands and gave Newt one of her dashing smiles. “How about we prepare you a nice dinner? Like a welcome party. Sweetie, you have to show Newt your new creations!”

Jacob scratched the tip of his moustache self-consciously and huffed when Newt’s curious gaze landed on him. “Ah, well, if you insist, I won’t say no.”

He smirked which gave Queenie the signal to grab Newt by the hand and lead him through the dimly lit corridor until they stepped into the kitchen. 

“Make yourself comfortable, darling,” she said, going for the dishes while Tina and Jacob took a seat at the round table standing at the center of the room and encouraged him to settle down on a free chair between them. 

“Your favorite chair, remember, pal?” Jacob asked jokingly and Newt had trouble hiding his grin. 

“Of course. It was the broken chair I’ve found in the trash during my last visit.”

“Newt, always the one finding a practical thing at random places,” Tina stated to which Jacob added, “Surprisingly, it still smells like cinnamon, as if it was standing in my bakery the whole time.”

“Well, it _was_ in the trash you normally use for the outdated baking products you get rid of,” Newt deadpanned, feeling more at home and relaxed the more the seconds ticked by in the presence of his friends. As they went on going back to old memories and telling stories about what had occurred during the period they had been living apart, Newt felt a pleasant warmness spreading in his chest, something he hadn’t felt in a long time. In the secluded life he used to lead, he nearly had forgotten how good it felt to be with the persons he cared about.

Newt was startled out of his reverie when Queenie came back, balancing a plate full of assorted pastries on one hand and depositing it ceremonially on the table’s draped surface.

“For our cinnamon roll,” she sang and Tina sighed. Newt gaped at the plate before him and threw Jacob an incredulous look. 

“You made all of it?”

“Yes,” Jacob said, puffing his chest proudly under his wife’s fond gaze. “This time I took the chance with Baklava, a Turkish pastry. It’s delicious! And here you have some Apple Strudel. I added a personal touch of course…”

“His bakery is literally flooded with thousand of clients every day, it’s scary,” Tina murmured in a conspiratorial tone as Jacob kept on rambling, completely oblivious to their amusement.

Newt gingerly swiped a finger over a pastry covered with chocolate icing and licked it clean, closing his eyes with a hum. He blushed as Tina chuckled and gave him a shove against his shoulder.

“I’m happy his business runs smoothly,” he whispered back and they smiled at each other, a moment of companionable silence passing between them. It was always like that. A single glance and they immediately understood each other. 

“So…” Newt observed Queenie working by the stove with Jacob who had decided to join her, and then glanced back at Tina, hesitating. “How is it going with Seraphina?” 

Newt regretted saying that the moment Tina’s expression darkened and she started biting on her bottom lip, looking down at her folded hands. 

“Well, uh, we kind of broke up.” She laughed in a high-pitched tone and waved her hand dismissively, blinking rapidly as a traitorous wetness gathered at the corners of her eyes. Newt suddenly noticed how thin she had become since the last time they had met, the healthy rosiness her cheeks used to adorn now replaced by a dreary paleness. 

“It’s nothing new,” she choked. “It was obvious that our relationship wouldn’t last long at this rate.”

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to--” Newt stammered, but the brunette shook her head and gave him a trembling smile.

“It’s okay, Newt. I guess it’s even better that way. I’m not made for this kind of lifestyle anyway.”

Not knowing how to deal with the admission, he lifted a tentative hand and rubbed her back. He remembered that Tina’s relationship with Seraphina Picquery wasn’t exactly something that someone would call ‘ _a long, quiet river_ ’. Seraphina was a stubborn woman with an explosive temperament who wasn’t capable of remaining in place for one second, always jumping from one activity to another. By day she worked as a journalist for an independent fashion magazine and by night as a singer and entertainer at a famous pansy club.

While Tina was more politically engaged and involved in the fight for women’s rights, it was positively surprising that they had managed to maintain their relationship for so long despite their busy life and the judgments they often got from certain people. But soon it became more complicated the moment Seraphina got the opportunity to perform in Chicago with the implication that she wouldn’t come back to New York.

Tina had mentioned in one of Newt’s letters that she had been tempted to move out with her; however, this decision would mean that Tina would be in the obligation to abandon her work and live a life of an itinerant, constantly moving from city to city. Newt knew that Tina loved her work too much to sacrifice it.

“She gave me an ultimatum. Typical,” Tina muttered and crossed her arms, leaning back on her seat with a heavy sigh. “She said that if I don’t come with her, it will be over for real… that I should feel ashamed for putting her in such a difficult situation.”

Newt couldn’t help but frown at what he just heard. “Um, Tina… I’m sorry, but I find it isn’t fair of her for saying that. She’s guilt tripping you.”

“I don’t know… I’m just confused and tired right now.”

Before Newt could respond, Tina suddenly leaned forward and took his hands, grinning at him, though he could still recognize the poorly concealed hurt in her eyes, and his heart clenched.

“But let’s talk about something more cheerful. I want to know what you’ve been up to these days. How’s your art project going?”

“I’m also curious,” Queenie chimed in, depositing a steaming pot on the table from which emanated a delicious smell that made Newt’s mouth water. 

The redhead cleared his throat, suddenly feeling self-conscious again. “Yes… speaking of—that’s actually one of the reasons why I came here this early. One of my fidèle clients wants to sponsor me by giving me the honor to present an art exhibition at his hotel.” He felt himself blush and stared at his feet when Jacob let out an impressed whistle. “It… it will be my first vernissage. People will see my paintings… Honestly, I don’t know if I should cry or not.”

“Newt, that’s… that’s awesome!” Jacob beamed, joined by Queenie’s and Tina’s vigorous nods.

“My little Newt is an adult now,” Queenie teased, earning an exasperated look from her sister. Later, Tina’s eyes focused again on Newt and she squeezed his hands, and it only occurred to him now that they had started to tremble. He didn’t know why it made him so nervous, but the thought of him giving a speech and presenting his work before a mass of people coming from the higher class made him feel giddy and sick to the stomach. He was supposed to be happy, goddamn it.

He mumbled, “I can’t believe my luck, and I feel really honored. But I’m not sure if I can make it. It all feels so surreal.”

“You can do this. _I’m_ sure of that. It’s a great opportunity for you to show off your talent. And honestly, it would be a waste if it’d go ignored.”

“Yes… Maybe you’re right,” Newt conceded and Tina chuckled.

“I’m always right.”

“Where will be the exhibition?” Jacob asked.

“At the _hotel Aubépine_ on Midland Beach.”

“Whoa, that’s some rich hotel.” Jacob looked impressed and Newt raised his eyebrows.

“You know about it?”

The baker snorted, “Of course, everyone knows the _hotel Aubépine_. Only people with a massive purse go there.”

“Don’t worry, Newt. It’s just a hotel,” Queenie winked as she saw the younger male’s troubled expression, and added in a playful tone, “I hope though, that you have some invitation cards left for us.”

Newt sputtered, “As if I’d forget you. I’ll actually feel more at ease knowing that you’ll be with me as soon as it starts.”

“We’ll encourage you. It’s going to be alright.” Tina ruffled Newt’s unkept hair, making him smile and look up at her gratefully, before staring back down at his hands still engulfed in his friend’s warm grip.

“Thank you. It means a lot to me…” He chewed on his underlip, then flashed them an apologetic look. “As much as I love staying at your place, I’m sorry to say that my client insists I should reside at the hotel ‘til the day of the exhibition.”

“No problem, we understand. It’s a nice place, you should take advantage of it and let yourself be pampered,” Queenie laughed while ushering her husband to bring the plates for the dinner. “At least you can stay with us for the night, right, Tina?”

Her sister nodded, giving Newt a last comforting squeeze before taking his plate to serve him a bit from the prepared meal. 

“Welcome home, Newt.” 

She smiled at him, and for the rest of the night, Newt didn’t waste a thought about the upcoming event that would probably be the beginning of a new turn in his line of work…

…Or at least he tried to.

\---

“Mister Scamander! We finally meet!”

Newt jumped and looked up from his suitcase as a booming voice resonated through the reception hall, belonging to a corpulent man with walrus-moustache who walked straight to him with energetic steps. A soon as the redhead recognized who it was, his hand was suddenly crushed by the grip of a massive hand and the man shook it with so much enthusiasm, he was afraid his arm would dislocate at any moment.

“Welcome to my humble hotel, Mister Scamander. I’m glad you have finally accepted my invitation. How is your brother Theseus doing? My my, you both look so alike!”

“I-It’s a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Binet,” Newt stuttered, completely taken off guard by the owner’s boisterous demeanor. It was one thing to imagine someone with the aid of pictures and letters, and another to meet said person in person. M. Binet was built like a giant wardrobe and his face was as red as a lobster. Though, his imposing appearance was softened by a pair of lively eyes and a smile that somehow put Newt’s skittish state a little bit more at ease. Newt tried to fight the compulsive need to avert his eyes and politely smiled back. 

“It’s a beautiful place,” he added and couldn’t keep the awe from his voice as he looked around and took in the décors of the main entrance. “It reminds me a bit of the Swiss chalets.”

“Oh, you flatter me so. Indeed, I wanted to add a cozy atmosphere to the interior design. As you can see, I am very fond of mahogany wood, but not in excess mind you,” M. Binet let out a barking laugh that made his moustache tremble comically. “But where are my good manners? Come with me, I’ll show you the room I’ve personally chosen for you. Your brother used to reside there from time to time. Afterwards, if you want, I can show you around. There are many things this hotel has to offer.”

M. Binet’s chatter went on as he led a bewildered Newt towards the elevator, followed by the baggage handler who had picked up his suitcase and other belongings. Newt’s awe kept growing as they passed many corridors and more details of the impressive décors were revealed. He let his eyes trail over golden moldings adorning the walls, giant windows framed by burgundy colored curtains, revealing a breathtaking view on the sun kissed beach, exotic plants and furniture that must have cost a big fortune, and crystal chandeliers reflecting rainbow patterns on the polished wooden floor.

Newt’s contemplating was interrupted when M. Binet came to a halt and opened a door on which was engraved with golden, sinuous letters: _Room 26_. 

“I hope this room is of your liking, Mister Scamander,” he said and encouraged Newt to come in with a theatrical wave of his hand. With a mix of curiosity and apprehension, Newt stepped through the threshold and his heart skipped a beat. 

The room was majestic. He was sure it was twice as big as his whole apartment in London. It was a spacious, yet comfortable looking room with a fire place and an enfilade of windows giving access to a little balcony. A massive bed, that could easily contain at least four persons, stood at the far end of the room, flanked by two nightstands with legs in the form of lion’s paws. The walls were entirely made out of wood with warm shades of brown, which gave Newt the nostalgic impression of the cottage he used to retire to when he needed an isolated place for his painting.

Like a magnet, his eyes were suddenly drawn to a drawing table standing at the centre of the room. It was high and large with the obvious intention to give the painter free range for his movements and drawing utensils. There it was. Shiny and ready to be used.

Given by the stunned face Newt made, M. Binet chuckled and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“A gift from the house,” he said as if it was nothing, and Newt turned around to shake his hand, ears turning red like tomatoes.

“Monsieur Binet, I don’t know what to say… You’ve done so much-- how can I ever pay you back?”

“Now now, please stop. It’s with great pleasure I do this, and God forbid I treat Theseus’ precious brother incorrectly!” 

Newt couldn’t help but flush with embarrassment at the thought of Theseus writing menace letters to his client with the threat to burn the building down if something ever happened to his little brother.

Before Newt could hide his face in his hands with the wish to disappear, M. Binet waltzed through the room and opened one of the windows, letting the fresh sea-air in. 

“You can do anything you wish. The vernissage will start in ten days and the exposition hall is ready to be inaugurated, so you have plenty of time to relax. And besides…” The owner went back to the door and nodded at Newt with the indication to follow him into the corridor. “This section of the beach is private of course. Only the hotel’s clients are allowed to go there, which means less people. You’ll have the calm environment you artists love so much.”

With those words, M. Binet shot him a perky smile and led the redhead down the stairs.

“Now first, let me introduce you to our restaurant. We have some special menus for today.”

\---

Newt groaned tiredly and fell with a heavy thump on the meticulously made bed. 

He didn’t expect that a tour around the hotel would be so exhausting. Well, knowing M. Binet’s eagerness to boast about his luxurious property, this shouldn’t surprise him.

With a pleased sigh Newt couldn’t suppress, he stretched his limbs and buried his face into the soft mattress. He still had trouble to believe this was happening. For the first time in his life his art gained more recognition. And perhaps… this would mean that he’d get more clients who would be eager to take commissions. 

It was not that he wasn’t happy with the nomad life he led, on the contrary. He had enough money to live on his own, surrounded by his paintings. He never had the intention to make a big career and to appeal to as many people as possible, especially to those from the upper, noble class. He liked to live alone, instantly feeling anxious and uncomfortable as soon as he was the centre of attention. 

But there were times where another part of him - a tiny voice that he had learned to ignore over the years - that managed to shyly crawl out of its cocoon whenever he let his guard down. A part that wanted to be heard, to show to everyone the things he had witnessed and put on a canvas, to show how the world was through _his_ eyes. The inner turmoil in the deepest part of his soul that never seemed to calm down, sometimes screaming so loudly, that there were moments Newt was persuaded he was on the verge of insanity.

“ _Don’t pull some bloody Van Gogh on me,_ ” his father used to say in an accusing tone during one of Newt’s bad days, when he trembled like a leaf, not knowing why in the living hell he felt so awful and tormented, where even Theseus couldn’t comfort him with his calming presence.

Newt clenched his hands into fists and pressed his face further against the mattress, feeling the crudely bitten fingernails digging into his skin. Now was not the time to dwell on past wounds. He was supposed to focus on the present moment and enjoy his stay in M. Binet’s hotel. Maybe some fresh air would do him good. He could take a stroll at the beach.

 _Yes. I should definitely do that_ , Newt thought to himself in a semblance of self-boost and rolled on his side, blinking slowly through the messy curtain of his fringe. He laid there for a while, taking in the warm breeze coming through the open window, a lazy, soothing atmosphere settling over the room. 

When Newt felt his eyes drooping, sleep threatening to overcome him, he quickly shook his head with a groan and dragged himself out of the bed. Maybe he could first discover the rest of the room and put on something less shabby before going out. With that set in mind, the redhead went to the first door next to him, which he mused surely gave access to the bathroom, and sneaked a peek through the opening. His eyes widened when he saw the sheer size of the bathtub standing proudly in the middle of the bathroom, entirely made of marble and something else which’s price Newt didn’t want to know. 

“Okay,” he whispered in a voice way too high for his liking and closed the door. Next.

The more Newt discovered his entourage, the more he was convinced M. Binet was just plainly said; completely mad.

Newt could only sigh when he headed to the dresser and opened it, revealing a wide range of various very expensive looking shirts, jackets, coats, manchettes and shoes. And-- was _that_ a tuxedo? 

He closed the dresser with a decisive shove and grabbed for his suitcase. His clothes would do.

 _At least I hope…?_ Newt looked at himself in the two-meter high mirror next to the nightstand and turned on his soles, scrutinizing the shape of his body in the new pair of beige pants with dark-brown suspenders and white, supple linen shirt he had bought at his favorite tailor. He frowned. He found the pants made his legs seem too long, and the shirt was maybe a bit too big for his lanky body. 

He trailed his fingers through the messy fringe falling over his eyes and let out a frustrated sound. Perhaps he needed a new haircut too… The artist let his eyes trail one last time over his reflection and bit his lip subconsciously, shoulders dropping in defeat. He wondered again why Theseus always used to envy him for his freckles. He had way too many of them. They nearly covered his entire face and spread like a net over his shoulders, growing in number every year the more time he spent under the sun.

He was like a walking paradox. His wrists and collarbones were delicately shaped and his arms long and wiry. But his tanned skin covered with scattered scars, calloused fingers and untamable hair gave away the vagabond and disordered life he led. Something most people wouldn’t call ‘appealing’ in his opinion.

Newt shook his head at his self-deprecating musings and turned his back to the mirror.

\---

With an A3 sketchbook and a bunch of charcoal pencils stacked in a bag, Newt walked out of the reception hall and took a few measured steps towards the sunlit beach. It was already six o’clock in the evening but the sun still shed a vivid light on the white sand Newt’s feet stepped on.

The walkway was animated with elegantly clad men and women strolling past him, laughing and conversing in a carefree manner, while the children ran around with colorful kites drawing loopings in the soft, blowing wind. Screeching seagulls flew their rounds above the heads of the hotel’s guests relaxing on deckchairs that were surrounded by giant parasols casting their shadows on the heated sand. Newt had to admit, it was a beautiful sight despite the general décor that seemed a bit too onerous and tidy for his taste.

The redhead drew in a deep breath, savoring the salty air and warmth on his exposed forearms, then headed towards one of the free deckchairs standing a bit far apart from the others. He was so engrossed in the pleasant feeling of having a calm spot where he could draw without being disturbed, that he didn’t hear at first the sound of approaching footsteps coming in his direction, followed by a careful “Excuse me?”.

Still oblivious to what was happening, Newt had barely put his utensils on the table next to the deckchair when he registered someone loudly clearing their throat, and with a tiny yelp he swirled around. His eyes settled on a tall man, dressed in a dark three-piece suit, who looked at him with a stern expression. 

Newt straightened himself with a hammering heart, mumbling an uncertain “Yes?” when the stranger just gazed at him for a few silent seconds.

“You’ve lost this,” the man finally said, and pulled out a long string to which was attached a little key from his suit-pocket. At first Newt looked puzzled, but then his eyes widened as he recognized the object dangling from the man’s extended hand. 

“Oh-- my key,” he exclaimed, internally berating himself for losing his suitcase’s key again for the countless time. 

“I saw it falling from your bag when you left the reception,” the stranger specified and dropped the key into Newt’s open palm, its fingers closing immediately around the tiny object.

Newt averted his eyes and gave a nervous laugh while shoving the key inside his pocket, and said, “Thank you... Um, I didn’t mean to take up your time. My apologies.”

“It’s nothing, really.” 

A warm glint appeared in the stranger’s eyes, giving Newt the courage to look up and let his gaze trail over the man’s sharp features. 

The stranger had black, smooth hair that was slicked back in an elegant fashion, the salt and pepper colored strands on his temples neatly trimmed. He had a handsome, yet serious looking face, a permanent scowl intensifying the hawk-like look in those charcoal eyes. Given his naturally mature and confident appearance, Newt could guess that the man was surely nearing his forties. The way he held himself in his strict three-piece suit - a smooth ebony cane cradled in one loose hand - added an aristocratic touch to the stranger’s overall intimidating aura. 

Newt swallowed and quickly looked back at his feet when he sensed he was staring way too intently at the older man. He heard a low chuckle, a smooth timbre that instantly made goose bumps run along Newt’s arms, startling him, and his eyes snapped back up, meeting the stranger’s curious gaze.

“Be more careful next time,” the older man drawled, amusement lacing his tone, and he inclined his head slightly. 

Before Newt could say something in response, the stranger turned swiftly on his heel and walked away, clearing his passage between the clutter of occupied deckchairs with slow yet confident steps, his broad back straight like a rod.

Newt couldn’t help but stare after him as if in trance, his heart still fluttering frantically against his ribcage.

When he caught himself wondering if that man also happened to be a resident at the _hotel Aubépine_ , he mentally shook himself and turned back to his sketchbook, a sigh escaping his lips. If it only took the appearance of one random - although very good looking - man to put him in this flustered state, then his hermit life truly hadn’t done him any good. 

Scowling at himself, the redhead grabbed one of the charcoal pencils and started to make the first sweeps with a practiced flick of his wrist, his mind purposefully trying to forget a certain pair of dark glinting eyes. With great difficulty, that is.

\---

During the next day, the weather remained warm and cloudless - the beach attracting much more enthusiasts for a lazy sunbath - and before Newt knew what he was doing, he found himself going back to the same spot like the last evening.

It was early in the morning, the sound of the waves a steady, calm song for the passerby’s ears. The wind had gained in intensity and whipped Newt’s tousled hair against his eyes, making him blink several times against the stubborn strands.

He smiled in relief when he found his chair still untouched, and quickly proceeded to settle down on the soft cushions, laying his bag securely next to him on the sand. With a soothed and content feeling warming is chest, Newt leaned back and let his gaze wander over the illuminated sky, catching a few seagulls flying with keen looking eyes above his head.

His thoughts drifted to the first night he had spent in his hotel room, and he found that he might actually get used to his stay at M. Binet’s property. Queenie was right. He had the luck to enjoy the rich fabric of a king size bed, a room that was twice his apartment’s size and a bathtub made out of marble; so he’d better savor this luxury before it came to an end. 

Newt was slowly starting to doze off under the drowsing heat, when he heard a “Good morning, sir.”, and he came back to himself with a slight jump. Feeling a bit irritated by the disturbance, he blinked up blearily through the curtain of his messy hair and saw a man wearing a crisp apron and holding a folded white napkin around his forearm, looking at him with a polite smile and an expectant look.

“Pardon me sir, would you like something to drink or to eat?” he asked to which Newt raised his eyebrows, still a bit confused by the whole display. 

“Uh-- I don’t know… Do you have black tea?” 

Newt rubbed the back of his neck. The tea was the first thing that came to his mind, and he couldn’t think of anything better in his tired state. Given the way the waiter nodded affirmatively, it must have been an acceptable choice.

“Of course, sir. Would you like a fresh pastry to accompany your tea? Today’s menu is ‘ _raspberry pearl_ ’. It’s chocolate macaroon layered with light chocolate mousse, raspberry crème and sago pearl.” 

“Alright, I’ll take that,” Newt mumbled, gradually feeling awkward and out of place in this overly polite and artificial-alike setting. Luckily, the waiter seemed to take the cue that Newt hadn’t the intention to add anything else, and he glided away with the painter’s order. 

Now that the prospect to take a nap was blown out of the window, Newt decided to pull the sketchbook out of his bag and flipped a few pages that were already filled with random warm-up doodles.

With a pencil in one hand he looked up and watched the constant back and forth movement of the sea’s waves. Like many times, he let his mind wander off into imaginary places, his thoughts jumping and mingling together without any restraint. It was only when the waiter returned with the promised tea and pastry, that Newt started to refocus on the present world and frowned at his untouched paper, worrying his lip with a frown.

Today was once again one of those frustrating days where he hadn’t the fortune to be struck by a spark of inspiration. He knew that this was perfectly normal. It would be a lie to say that there was no artist who hadn’t at least once any clue of what to draw. But still… 

Newt chastised himself internally for his annoyance and turned his attention to the steaming cup of tea that was settled on the table next to him. 

He should just savor the meal, and then maybe draw the waves or something else that caught his eyes without transforming it systematically into a masterpiece. His stay at the hotel was supposed to be an opportunity to relax and just enjoy himself, for god’s sake.

While he munched on his pastry, Newt absentmindedly reached for the little key tucked inside his pocket and trailed his fingers over the smooth surface, suddenly wondering if a certain dark eyed stranger might show up again at the beach.

He lingered at his drawing spot for at least three more hours before he stood up with a huff and slowly walked back to the reception hall, barely able to suppress a fleeting sense of disappointment.

\---

Newt slept for at least eleven hours. 

As soon as he opened his eyes, blaring sunlight greeted him and he quickly pressed his face back into the pillow with a painful grunt. Given by the light’s intensity, there was the high probability that it was midday. Newt briefly wondered since when he was such a heavy sleeper.

 _Must be the sea air_ , he thought and groaned.

It was with much difficulty that he dragged himself into the bathroom for a quick shower, but as soon as the hot stream came into contact with his skin, he immediately felt more invigorated. With a fluffy bathrobe clinging snugly to his body, Newt stepped out and went to open the balcony door. Once outside, he rested his elbows on the railing and watched a few residents strolling on the walkway, some of them heading towards the sea that glittered like a mass of diamonds under the sunrays.

The redhead crossed his arms and leaned further against the balustrade, taking in the whole scenery. Still feeling quite lazy and tired, he started to play with the idea to order a room service and then snooze for while on the balcony, when his eyes suddenly caught sight of a tall familiar figure walking by the ornate wood-pillars bordering the walkway.  
He was a bit far away, but the artist immediately recognized the slicked back hair and dark attire. Newt’s heart skipped a beat and without noticing he gripped the railing tighter, his breath hitching. 

Like the first time they’d met, the older man strode as if he owned the place even though there was a slight limp to his walk, part of his weight supported by the ebony cane. Newt watched with rapt attention as the stranger moved towards the stone stairs leading to the sea, and descended them, disappearing out of his sight.

The redhead stood frozen on spot for a few minutes, feeling torn between following the other man and staying in his room left alone with a strange sense of yearning.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake…”

Under a sudden impulse, Newt skidded back into the room and hastily put on his pants and the nearest shirt that laid in a disheveled pile on the floor. He automatically grabbed for his sketchbook and shoved it into the bag before coming to a halt before the mirror for a quick hair-check.

Feeling more or less satisfied with his appearance, he strode out of the room and slammed the door behind him, hurrying with impatient steps to the elevator. As soon as he was outside, he forced his steps to slow down with the silent order to control his frantic heartbeat. The shorter the distance became between him and the sea, the more nervous he became and in a sudden moment of giddiness he asked himself why in the hell he was doing this. He didn’t even know the man. They had seen each other only once, and now he was behaving like an overly enthusiastic admirer.

A nauseous sense of shame crept up his chest as he arrived at his unoccupied spot and hesitantly settled down on the seat. A lump formed in his throat and his hands began to shake. He quickly clenched them into fists and focused on the seeping pain coming from the nails pressing into his skin. _Not again_.

He took deep breaths and closed his eyes, trying to calm his trembling body. Everything was fine. There was nothing to be this agitated about. If he wanted he could just go back.

When he felt that he had his breathing more under control, he opened his eyes and looked around, anticipation making his stomach flip. He tried not to feel disappointed when all he saw was the waves splashing vigorously against the shore and the other residents relaxing on their deckchairs.

He was just considering to pick up his things and trail back to the hotel with the feel of disgust towards himself, when a tall silhouette holding a cane appeared at the far end of M. Binet’s property and walked alongside the sea, slowly coming nearer to where Newt was sitting.

The artist perked up as he recognized the figure, and waited for the older man to stroll past him. As the stranger came to a halt ten meter apart from him and contemplated the waves’ back and forth with an absent look adorning his serious face, Newt couldn’t help but let his gaze wander over the man’s elegant features. Now that he was sure that the stranger hadn’t seen him yet, the redhead gave himself the leisure to observe him freely from his drawing spot.

He noticed that this time he was wearing something more casual. Instead of the three-piece suit, he was wearing a simple black shirt and a vest that clung at the right places, giving a subtle image of the strong muscles flexing under the soft fabric. The shirt was matched with an equally black pair of pants and pretty expensive looking shoes that were now spoiled by the wet sand. A navy blue scarf was hanging in a relaxed fashion around his neck, a striking detail among the dark clothes. 

His profile reminded Newt of one of the marble statues he had seen at one of his travels around the world. A straight nose, sharp cheekbones and thick eyebrows hovering over cunning eyes, a deep frown making him look as if the waves had just offended him with their presence. Newt felt the urge to walk up to him and softly brush the scowl away with his fingers, wondering how he would look like with a smile spreading over his stern features.

All of a sudden, Newt became aware of the general atmosphere and décor around that man: A lonely figure standing with a slightly crooked leg but with a proud stance at the shore, foamy waves extending their fingers along the sand, touching the stranger’s shoes with tentative flows. The pink colored sky casting a soft light on the slicked back hair... 

There was something melancholic, yet beautiful and serene about the scene occurring before the artist’s eyes.

A feeling that Newt couldn’t quite describe unfurled in his chest, making his heart stutter and his cheeks burn in a passionate heat.

Before he could stop himself, Newt grabbed for his pencil and flipped the sketchbook open, catching a loose page that nearly flipped out into the wind. He pressed it against the book and began to draw the first lines of the stranger’s face, excitement spiking like a kindled fire. He drew in a frenzy he didn’t knew he was capable of having. Internally, the redhead was afraid that from one second to another the magic would scatter like fragile porcelain. 

At least thirty minutes passed by without both men moving from their spot, as if they knew something unexplainable and unearthly was going on. The stranger still standing like a statue at the shore, and the artist sitting discreetly on a secluded deckchair, drawing soft lines that slowly morphed into a beautiful scenery.

By the time Newt was nearly finished, his wrist started to hurt, signaling him that he had gone a bit overboard with his eagerness. 

After that, everything occurred too fast. As soon as the older man whipped his head around with a suspicious look, suddenly aware that he was watched, a strong wind blew across the beach and tore the paper from Newt’s hands with a sharp pull, blowing it with violent sweeps into the sky. 

Newt’s eyes widened in horror. 

“No, no, no..!” He jumped from his seat and ran after the paper, trying to catch it with flailing hands. Utter mortification crashed over him as he saw with trembling lips how the paper practically flew into the stranger’s hand. 

The older man’s eyes followed attentively the paper making its loopings above his head, and with a sharp gesture he caught it in a tight grip, the wind still blowing violently but incapable of pulling it out of his grasp.

The man held the drawing in both hands and looked at it, his frown deepening.

Newt was sure he was on the verge of having a heart attack.

“Oh, no.”

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't live in New York, I'm sorry if there are any inaccuracies. So, that's how I see the beach sort of. :')
> 
> Might continue to write it, hope it wasn't too crappy.  
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://sassy-percy-graves.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, chapter two is up! :D
> 
> If it wasn't for your super-awesome comments, I would have taken longer to write it, haha. You're the best!!!  
> I was honestly surprised by all the positive feedback I got. I was really anxious while posting the first chapter, thinking that my english isn't quite good enough to write a whole fanifc. 
> 
> That's why I want to express to you my gratitude, thank you so so much for your kind words, it really motivates me a lot!  
> By the way, I was asked in the comment section if I would only write in Newt's POV. I've been thinking about it, and I've decided to write the story also through Graves' POV, but I'll mostly stick to Newt, so you know.
> 
> I hope you like this chapter, enjoy. <3

It was as if time had stopped.

The stranger stood completely motionless, scrutinizing Newt’s drawing with an unreadable look while the artist himself held his breath, petrified and incapable of doing anything but stare in utter shock at the scene before him.

Newt had to say something. Anything that could somehow save him from this situation, but the only thought that his mind produced was the desperate wish to disappear. He didn’t dare move a finger as he watched how the man lifted a hand to scratch his left temple, his pensive looking eyes shifting minutely over the paper.

Suddenly, he peered up and met Newt’s gaze, making the artist flinch and draw his shoulders up to his ears with the semi-conscious will to make himself appear smaller. He was certain that the older man could hear his frantic heartbeat and unsteady breathing. He found himself unable to avoid the man’s dark eyes fixating him with an intense gleam sparking in their depths, their weight pinning him in place.

Newt bit his lip, feeling a flaming heat spreading across his face, his heart leaping in his throat with the threat to jump out. As his vision gradually became blurry and his ears started to ring, all kinds of scenarios invaded his thoughts, intensifying the feeling of dread that made the familiar lump in his throat increase in growth.

Surely the man would throw the drawing at him and demand an explanation of why Newt had been watching him and drawn a picture of him without his consent. Or worse, he would call the hotel staff to come to remove Newt from the property with the accusation of being a creepy stalker branded on the painter’s forehead. He would--

“Are you alright?”

The man’s deep voice laced with a sense of concern pulled Newt out of his panicked thoughts, making him jolt. Suddenly aware of how his hands had started to tremble once again, he quickly shoved them inside his pockets and flashed the stranger nervous look, clearing his throat self-consciously when the man cocked his head to the side, observant eyes trailing over his freckled features.

“I-I… well, the drawing… I can explain--” Newt stammered, his voice rising an octave at the last syllable as he saw the man moving towards him with slow steps, the drawing still cradled securely in his hand. 

It was evident by now that the stranger could see the tremor cursing through the artist’s body as he desperately tried to control the urge to just turn around and run for his life. With a flash of embarrassment mingling with his swirling emotions, Newt dropped his gaze and gasped a breath when the stranger’s shoes appeared centimeters before his own feet. He stubbornly held his head bowed while searching frantically for a passable explanation, eyes planted firmly on the lacquered leather.

A moment of charged silence passed between them, the sound of the waves a mere distant melody in both men’s ears. Newt nearly believed he was hallucinating when the stranger spoke up with a hushed voice, “You’re the man who lost the key...”

The redhead flushed at the uttered words, fighting the urge to wring his hands. 

“Y-Yes…” he answered meekly and waited with a thrumming heart for the inevitable interrogation.

A low hum was the reply. 

“Ah, so we meet again. This is piece is quite impressive, I must say.”

Newt jerked his head up and gaped at the man, his eyes widening in disbelief. He managed to suppress a flustered yelp when he realized how close the stranger was standing to him. 

Without his own accord, his eyes wandered over the man’s face, subconsciously memorizing the little details becoming visible under his curious gaze. He could recognize the fine lines around the stranger’s eyes and mouth, a trait giving away the man’s age. Newt blinked in mild surprise when he noticed a mole adorning his interlocutor’s left cheek. 

It was discreet, but the artist found it added another appealing feature to the stranger’s appearance. 

When Newt met his eyes, he was once again stricken by their intensity. The man’s expression was calm and collected, but there was something in those dark orbs that made Newt’s heart flutter in a way he was sure he hadn’t felt before.

Newt was pulled out of his reverie when the stranger broke their eye contact and glanced back at the drawing, a ghost of a smile softening his stern features.

“Honestly, this is unexpected.” He arched an eyebrow and trailed a finger reverently over one corner of the thick paper. “I’m in loss of words.”

“I, um…” Still bewildered by his interlocutor’s odd reaction, Newt averted his eyes and clutched the inner sides of his pockets, suddenly feeling warm. “I’m really sorry for causing this… I didn’t have any bad intentions, I often draw things that catch my eye without considering--”

Newt abruptly snapped his mouth shut when he heard a bemused huff. He glanced up only to see the man looking at him with a mirthful quirk twitching the corners of his mouth, his gaze dragging slowly over Newt’s face, making the artist feel giddy and naked under the intense assessment.

“So I catch your eye, huh,” the stranger said with a wry twist to his mouth, making Newt flush instantly and stutter in embarrassment.

“Ah- what I meant is--”

“Well, I feel flattered,” the older man breathed softly with amusement. He paused; then he added jokingly, “I hope I haven’t deceived you.”

A small, reassuring smile spread over the man’s features, and Newt found himself staring at him with warmth filling his chest, a bit of the pent up tension leaving his strained limbs. Tentatively, he smiled back, his heart fluttering when the stranger’s smile widened a fraction in response.

Feeling emboldened by the action, Newt mumbled shyly, “You’re everything but a deception, Mister ah…”

Newt paused and bit his lip, suddenly wondering if his choice of words had been inappropriate, but his anxious musings evaporated when the elegant man inclined his head, without breaking eye contact, and pressed a flattened hand to his black-clad chest.

“Graves,” he said curtly and lifted the hand from his chest to extend it towards Newt, glancing at him with an expectant look. “And who might be the artist who gave me the privilege to be his model?”

Newt was certain he looked like a tomato by now as he felt his cheeks blush, a prickling heat covering his entire face. He tentatively pulled his hand from his pocket and placed it into the man’s own, averting his eyes.

“Newt,” he whispered. “Newt Scamander.”

His breath hitched when he felt the man’s fingers enclosing his slender hand with a soft, reassuring motion, a warm thumb squeezing slightly one of Newt’s knuckles as if he was sensing the artist’s nervous state. Maybe it was the case…

“Mister Scamander,” the man repeated slowly, as though testing the way the name rolled on his tongue, giving the blushing artist a thoughtful look. “I’ll remember your name next time we meet. I presume you’re a guest at this place?”

Newt had trouble to stay focused after hearing his name being spelled out in such a sinful manner. Though, he managed to bring himself back to reality when he heard the uttered question, and blurted hastily, “Yes, I am.” 

He looked down at his hand that was still encircled by the older man’s strong grip, a pleasant tickle running up his arm. “I’m… staying at the hotel for a while.” 

The other man nodded and released Newt’s hand, leaving a trace of lingering warmness on the artist’s skin. Before Newt could feel disappointed at the loss, Mr. Graves said, “That’s fortunate. It’s been a while since the hotel has been blessed by the presence of such an interesting soul.”

Feeling slightly overwhelmed by the compliment, Newt looked away and cleared his throat, barely able to suppress a shy smile. Before he could collect himself, the light atmosphere was suddenly disrupted by someone yelling, “Mister Graves!”

Newt flinched and Mr. Graves turned around with a mildly troubled expression, his trademark frown returning with a vengeance, much to Newt’s dismay. The redhead followed his look and his gaze landed on a young man who seemed to be in his early twenties walking up to them with hurried steps. He wore a boater hat that was on the verge of flying off his head by each wind stroke, laying a bit askew on his crown of long dark-brown hair whipping around his flushed face.

When he came to halt before them, he pressed both hands on his knees and hunched forward, wheezing as he tried to regain his breath. Newt blinked at him with confusion and glanced back at the older man who seemed to know the newcomer, given by the way his serious eyes softened a fraction at the sight of the longhaired male.

“Credence,” Mr. Graves said, surprise lacing his deep voice. “What’s all the panicked rush about?”

“Mr. Graves…” 

The young man straightened up and met Mr. Graves’ questioning gaze with a rueful look. Though, his voice had an insistent and impatient edge as he pointed, “My apologies, Mr. Graves, but I have to remind you that the conference starts in two hours. I’ve been searching for you everywhere. I--”

Credence stopped in his ramblings, suddenly throwing at Newt a suspicious look, wringing his hands and glancing back at Mr. Graves with an expression of uneasiness accentuated by his big doe-like eyes. 

Sensing that the discussion that was about to come wasn’t destined to Newt’s ears, the artist stepped back and forced a nervous apologetic smile, a funny feeling unfurling in his stomach. His smile faltered when the younger man just stared at him as if he had something on his face. 

Newt felt himself flush, internally searching for an excuse to leave, but his thoughts were interrupted by Mr. Graves calmly saying, “I know, Credence. There is no need to be worried, I’m fine.”

Judging by the weariness in his voice, it seemed that he had repeated this phrase too often to count in the past. Credence’s lips parted to form a protest, but he shut his mouth as quickly as he opened it when Mr. Graves gave him a sharp look, clearly indicating that the topic was closed. 

Newt followed their exchange with a puzzled expression, gradually feeling out of place. Before he had time to ponder about it, Mr. Graves turned towards him and handed him the drawing, his narrowed eyes projecting an inscrutable look as he gave the paper one last glance. 

“I’m afraid, I must leave now,” the older man said solemnly, meeting Newt’s troubled gaze with softening eyes, the strangely absent look soon vanished from their dark depths like a mirage. “Surely we will meet again.”

“I hope so,” Newt replied, nearly stumbling on his words when the man took once again his hand that wasn’t clutching the drawing to his heaving chest, and shook it. 

The artist added with a tentative smile, “It… It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Graves. And- I apologize for earlier…”

Mr. Graves gave a low chuckle in response, eyes twinkling. 

“Again, be careful,” he said and released Newt’s hand, his fingers brushing lightly over delicate skin as they parted, making Newt shiver.

“Mr. Graves, your cane,” said Credence who had been watching their interaction in silence with slightly arched eyebrows, a curious expression settling over his angular face.

Mr. Graves detached his gaze from Newt and turned towards the younger male, waving a dismissive hand as Credence crouched down to pick up the cane that had dropped on the sand, probably when Mr. Graves had been busy holding Newt’s drawing. 

“I can live without it,” he said matter-of-factly, making Credence smile and shake his head, his long wavy hair dancing around his face. 

“Yes, but admit that it aids you quite many times,” he scolded fondly and handed the cane to Graves who took it begrudgingly. His frown was almost comical, and Newt couldn’t help but hide his face behind his drawing, stifling a laugh, warmth spreading inside his chest.

He quickly composed himself when Mr. Graves turned his head to nod at him in goodbye, before he turned his back to him and moved towards the walkway. Newt saw Credence trailing behind - hesitating - until the brunet threw him a careful look above his shoulder, a bashful smile twitching the corners of his mouth. Then he quickly averted his eyes and dashed across the beach, joining Mr. Graves who had become a distant figure by now, walking next to the hotel-building.

Feeling slightly confused and touched by the younger man’s sudden change of behavior, Newt let out a sigh and looked down at the drawing cradled in his hands. 

His heart fluttered when he let his eyes trail over the man’s handsome face drawn with charcoal pencil, each black stroke telling a story that waited to be unveiled. Dark eyes looking at the sea with a mix of melancholy and stern stoicism, guarded and imperceptible, yet lively and full of undisclosed emotions.

Newt didn’t know how much time had passed while he was standing alone at the beach, his mind completely immersed in the portrait, unaware of the sinking sun casting orange and violet lights on the sea.

Unconscious of the little smile that had spread across his face, Newt pressed the drawing against his chest.

\---

Newt sat cross-legged on his bed, looking at the various dishes presented before him on a vast silver plate.

When he had woken up the next morning with a churning stomach, he had decided to order a room service, partly out of curiosity and also because he wanted to avoid encountering too many people at the dining saloon, knowing that the place used to be full on early mornings.

He was aware that the menu would contain many generous _haute-cuisine_ -like dishes, but what he didn’t expect was the sheer amount of them, enough to feed a whole family. Well, maybe that was a stretch, but it was nearly the case.

A resigned sigh escaped his lips as he picked a piece of pineapple laying on a bed of various other exotic fruits covered with a white cream that smelled like vanilla and something spicy Newt couldn’t recognize. 

Satisfied with the taste, he took the whole plate and leaned back against the cushions, reveling in the warmth of the sunlight shining through the open windows and caressing his still damp skin from the shower he had taken earlier.

As Newt brought a piece of strawberry to his lips, his thoughts wandered back to the last encounter he had with a certain dark-eyed man by the sea. He couldn’t explain to himself why exactly he was so fascinated with him and why this man had such an unsettling effect on him. The only certainty he had was that he wanted to meet Mr. Graves again and get to know him better.

He wanted to know what brought him to reside at this hotel. What he did for a living. Did he come from a noble family? Highly possible, given the impeccable clothes he wore and his elegant way of speech. Though, contrary to most people from the higher class Newt had encountered over the years, there was a certain humility and openness to Mr. Graves’ attitude despite the closed-off impression he gave at the beginning. Maybe it was genuine or perhaps it was just a way for him to be polite when people spoke to him.

Maybe Newt was reading too much into the signs of Mr. Graves’ behavior, but he had the sensation that the man was truly interested in him. Like he was worthy- 

Newt shook his head and pushed the semi-empty plate to the side, a sudden surge of discomfort choking his throat.

How insecure and naïve could he be? Was he so shallow that it only took one smile and a handshake to make him swoon like a lovesick teenager, as if he needed every little act of kindness to feel valid? He was better than this. 

He definitely had been living apart from human interaction for far too long, which gave the consequence that he wasn’t capable anymore of rightly interpreting any body language. That must be it.

Newt pressed his face into his hands and bit back a groan. Way to diminish his self-worth…

Surely Mr. Graves was just being polite and considerate enough to not make Newt feel bad about the drawing, and had taken pity on him, given the way the artist had been shaking in fear of retribution as if he had committed an unforgivable crime. There was no other explanation.

However… Newt couldn’t ignore the little glimmer of hope and warmth sparking his chest when the man’s eyes were so intently focused on him. He came to the realization that he _wanted_ Mr. Graves to notice him more. To reciprocate the attraction he felt towards him.

The artist lifted his head and automatically looked at the drawing that was resting on his drawing table, the paper’s white surface glowing under the sunlight, making the portrait look as if there was a halo gleaming around the older man’s head.

Newt wondered why Mr. Graves hadn’t asked any more questions about the drawing. Surely he wanted to know why he had caught the artist’s attention. 

A blush spread over Newt’s face and he worried his lip. No. It was good that Mr. Graves hadn’t pried any further. Newt was certain he wouldn’t have been able to give a reliable answer without coming across as a sleazy admirer.

 _Mr. Graves_ …

Newt immediately found he liked the sound of that name. Not as strange as ‘Credence’. 

He didn’t know what to think about the boy. What kind of relation did he have with Mr. Graves? They seemed to be very close to each other, of that Newt had no doubt.

Slowly growing tired of his troublous musings, Newt stood up and moved towards the balcony, leaning with a heavy sigh against the railing. 

If he wanted to meet Mr. Graves again he had to make sure to go out more often and mingle among the other guests at the hotel, as bothersome as it sounded. He had to learn to control his apprehensions concerning social events. It would be a good training for the upcoming vernissage.

With that set in mind, Newt decided to give his first try at the immense hotel lounge he hadn’t dared to visit yet. He knew that everyone gathered there to make new acquaintances and discuss various matters - from hobbies to politics -, play billiard, listen to piano performances and drink some rich alcohol from the bar. That M. Binet managed to dodge the prohibition without getting caught until now was a mystery.

Now that he had a plan settled for the evening, Newt went to the closet in order to pick a passable outfit for his upcoming visit, ignoring the way his heart thrummed against his chest.

\---

Newt stood awkwardly at the lounge’s entrance and asked himself for the umpteenth time how on earth he had ended up at this place, wearing a goddamn tuxedo.

With a deep flush gathering at the tips of his ears, he pulled a handkerchief from his side-pocket and fiddled with it with the pretence to keep his clammy hands occupied. He purposefully tried to avoid his reflection on the enormous mirrors stretching over the decorated walls, not wanting to see how ridiculous he looked.

He watched a group of chattering women wearing glittery dresses and feather headbands making their way into the lounge, each of them accompanied by a preening man clad in a black or entirely white flawless tuxedo. That evening, Newt had heard, a famous singer was invited to entertain the guests at the lounge, so each person was wearing their best costume. The excitement was palpable in the overfilled room.

Nearly each seat was already occupied, most of the residents immersed in animated conversations while smoking cigars or serving themselves some delicacies from the plates which were presented by the waiters slaloming between the tables.

The longer Newt observed the whole scene, the more he felt his resolve dropping. It was at times like these that he wished Tina was here. She would’ve found the right words to encourage him and most of all; he wouldn’t have to be alone to deal with this event. 

He knew that he was being irrational, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that everyone would watch him once he stepped into the room. They would see that he wasn’t one of them.

Newt swallowed thickly and lowered his head, his breath hitching when he realized that his hands had been twisting the handkerchief so strongly, a few red welts had started to form on their palms. With a frustrated huff he shoved the handkerchief back into his pocket and turned on his heel to leave.

This was ridiculous. All these efforts just because he was dumb enough to believe he would stand a chance to meet a man who had certainly forgotten him by now.

Newt was about to take the stairs when he heard two familiar voices approaching him from above, and he lifted his head to see said man and Credence descending the stairs, both of them in a middle of a heated discussion.

The artist froze, his breath stuttering as he watched Mr. Graves taking each stair-tread with a careful step, one hand holding the cane while the other gripped the handrail. Despite the slight disability that seemed to cause him discomfort, the man still maintained a proud stance, his stern eyes looking straight ahead as if daring everyone to come confront him.

Before both men could see him, Newt hastily walked back towards the lounge’s entrance and hid himself behind a giant pot containing an exotic plant that was luckily wide enough to camouflage his face. With a fluttering heart he let the image of Mr. Graves wearing a crisp raven-black tuxedo with silver manchettes and gleaming scorpion-shaped collar pins engrave into his mind. The black hair was slicked back as usual and the grey strands on the man’s temples were highlighted by the silvery scarf hanging around his neck, his whole appearance emanating a regal and imposing aura. 

It was out of the redhead’s comprehension that the man could look even more dashing than he already was, and he couldn’t help but feel mortified about his body’s reaction when he sensed a heat spreading from his stomach to his lower regions.

He snapped out of his dazed state when Mr. Graves and Credence arrived at the entrance and came there to a halt, oblivious to Newt’s presence. It was with surprise that Newt noticed that the longhaired man talking to Graves was only wearing a simple worn-out waistcoat and slacks that seemed to have lost a bit of their original color; his wavy hair in disarray as if a violent wind had just puffed them up. The boy looked blatantly out of place among the luxurious décor.

Before Newt could ponder any further about the curious display, he heard Credence’s soft voice suddenly rise in volume, their discussion visibly taking a more serious turn.

“I can’t understand why you’re letting him talk to you like that.” 

Credence sounded distressed, his pleading eyes fixated on Mr. Graves who looked pointedly at an invisible spot next to the boy’s head, his frown a straight line above his dark eyes.

“The man isn’t worth my attention, Credence. The best way is to ignore him and he’ll soon grow tired of it,” Mr. Graves said calmly, though there was a hint of impatience in his tone, indicating that he was starting to become exasperated by the whole argument.

“I don’t believe it,” Credence replied with defiance, a slight tremor shaking his voice. “He takes great pleasure in tarnishing your image and he won’t stop until you lose everything you’ve fought for.”

“You put too much weight onto his actions. If the others are intelligent enough, they’ll see through his pathetic game and he’ll be the one left with empty hands. Now please, Credence, if you’ll excuse me, there is a reserved table awaiting me, and you have your internship report to finish.”

“But- Mr. Graves…”

“Go, now. Or you’ll be late,” Mr. Graves sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “If you need help, you know you can contact me anytime.”

“Yes, I know, but--”

“ _Credence_.”

The authoritative tone immediately shut the boy up. His lips started to tremble and with knitted eyebrows he looked away, his posture turning rigid. However, his eyes maintained a rebellious glint that only seemed to grow by each passing second.

“I- I can’t stand this,” Credence choked out after a tense pause. “I can’t stand the way he looks at you. He’s plotting something, I can feel it.”

Not knowing how to process what he just heard, Newt held his breath as another moment of heavy silence passed between them.

Mr. Graves was the first one to move. With a gentle hand he squeezed Credence’s shoulder, prodding the boy to look up at him.

“Nothing is going to happen, Credence. And if so… I’ve dealt with far worse than that bastard, you know that.”

“Yes, but- I’m just… worried,” Credence mumbled. He desperately tried to fight the shaky chuckle escaping his twitching lips when the older man ruffled his unkempt hair in a playful manner and gave him a comforting smile.

“Now, don’t worry about me. If I were you, I’d be more concerned about your final exams,” Mr. Graves teased, to which Credence answered with a tired snort.

“Yes, alright. Of course. I’m going now.”

“That’s my boy.”

Mr. Graves patted Credence on the shoulder, his eyes taking on a wistful look as they trailed over the younger man’s features.

“The cab is waiting.” He nodded towards the reception hall and released the boy with a sigh. “Let the old man enjoy his evening.”

Credence shook his head with an amused grin and huffed softly, “Goodnight, Mister Graves.”

Mr. Graves lingered at the lounge’s entrance after Credence bid his farewell and left the reception hall. A moment passed where the older man stood still, his eyes wearing an empty look. His expression darkened as he caught sight of his own reflection in the gleaming mirrors and he schooled his face into a neutral mask, straightening his back. 

Newt tentatively stepped out of his hiding spot as soon as the man turned around and disappeared into the lounge, leaving a strangely eerie silence in his wake. 

The redhead stood at the entrance, feeling lost. He was torn between staying at the lounge and retreating back into the secure cocoon of his room. If he decided to join Mr. Graves, he would be walking into a dangerous territory. He felt that he had already heard too much than what was destined to his ears. Though, he found himself replaying the past conversation in his head, many questions already taking surface, driving him dizzy.

“Are you lost, honey?”

Newt whipped his head around to the voice of a woman clad in an emerald dress with a matching head-band standing next to him, her perfectly shaded eyelashes blinking at him with curiosity.

“Ah, um… No, everything’s alright,” Newt blurted hastily, internally scolding himself for his awkward demeanor. He tried to offer her a hesitant smile. “I’m… just waiting for someone.”

The woman who had been watching his stammering with an amused expression, replied with a giggle, “Okay, darling. Was just wondering what you were up to, the way you’re standing here like a salt pillar.”

Newt blushed at her uttered words, wracking his mind for quick-witted reply, but his thoughts came to a stutter when the woman brushed a gloved hand over his shoulder and winked at him, her dress sparkling in the chandelier lights as she cocked her hip.

“Your darling lover better arrive soon, or you won’t survive the night, given how cute you are.”

She let out a puff of laughter at Newt’s dumbfounded expression and added in a conciliatory tone, “Not really the joking type, are you? Well, it was nice talking to you. Seize the day and take some drink. You shy-guy sure need one.”

Before Newt could say something in response, the woman waved him goodbye turned on her heels to step into the lounge, her glimmering dress disappearing out of his sight.

Newt let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, his heart racing as if he had run a marathon. He couldn’t help but feel anxious at the prospect of him being invasively approached by other people at the lounge, despite the obvious joke the woman in green had thrown at him.

Letting out a shaky sigh, Newt turned towards the mirror and arranged his bowtie, a look of determination settling over his face. Somehow, the woman’s words had struck something in him that made him feel defensive in a strange way. 

Before some uncomfortable memories could resurface in his mind, Newt strongly bit into the inner side of his cheek and let the air out through his nose with a long drawn out breath.

When he felt that he had his giddy state more or less under control, he walked into the lounge, repeating a semblance of self-motivating mantra in his head.

\---

A wave of cacophony and suffocating cigarette smoke invaded Newt’s senses as he tried to find a passage between the occupied seats in the desperate hope to find a free table. The lounge was a vast hall that was big enough to play football in, but right at this moment Newt had the impression that he was standing inside a sardine can.

He quickly sidestepped a waiter who rushed past him, balancing filled silver plates on each hand while masterfully clearing a way through the moving masses. Newt had just recovered from the near-miss he had with the waiter, when someone suddenly stepped in front of him and he found himself knocking into the back of a burly man holding a champagne glass that nearly tipped over during the collision, a few drops spilling onto the room’s carpeted floor. 

As the man turned around and threw Newt an angry look, the redhead stumbled backwards and hastily apologized, but his voice gave out when he caught sight of Mr. Graves who was standing a few meters behind the man, busy talking with a pointy nosed woman clad in a peach-melba colored dress.

Before Newt could approach them, the burly man grabbed his arm and pulled him back with a brusque movement, making the artist gasp in surprise.

“Hey, where are you going, you impolite imbecile,” he barked while Newt tried to pull himself out of the tight grip squashing his trembling muscles.

“I’m sorry,” Newt said sheepishly, fighting the growing fear crawling up his chest as the man squeezed his arm harder. “I-I didn’t mean to push you. Would you please--”

“Do you think you can weasel yourself out like that? A boy like you should be taught some manners,” the man hissed menacingly and intensified his grip, making Newt cry out in pain.

“What is going on?”

Both men turned their heads towards the low rumble of an annoyed sounding voice, and Newt felt a rush of relief when Mr. Graves appeared in his line of sight. Their gazes met and the artist saw a flash of recognition passing through Graves’ eyes, his heart fluttering when the dark-haired man stepped up to him and laid one reassuring hand against his back while the other pulled the burly man away from him, Newt’s hurting arm finally out of his assailant’s reach.

“How about, you mind your own damn business, Graves?” the man asked and flashed Mr. Graves a furious look, his hands balled into fists. He looked as if he was on the verge of skinning him alive, and Newt subconsciously pressed himself further against Graves’ hand while trying to rub the numbness in his arm away.

Mr. Graves arched an eyebrow, completely unimpressed, and replied coolly, “Oh, I think it is in my complete right to intervene. I’m sure Mister Scamander here hasn’t done anything that might legitimately provoque your ire. Now please,” He waved a nonchalant hand towards the bar, “let’s separate in good terms and leave us alone. You’ve already drunk more alcohol than necessary.”

“Ah, so you know this guy on top of that?” The man snorted in disdain and pointed an index finger at Graves, but to Newt’s relief he moved off of them with sluggish steps. “You should thank God that we’re in a public meeting. Tell your little friend here that he better not mess with me or he won’t be as lucky next time he dares to cross my road.”

“Of course, duly noted,” Mr. Graves huffed sarcastically and watched the man’s departure with a scowl hardening his stern features. 

As they stood side by side, Newt was suddenly hyperaware of Mr. Graves’ hand lingering on his back, its weight producing a warmth that seeped through his clothes and spread over his skin like heated coal. 

Sensing that he quickly had to say something before he would faint under the contact, Newt said shyly, “Thank you, Mister Graves. I… This man did quite frighten me, I must say.”

The dark-haired man turned towards him and answered with the trademark incline of his head, a smile softening his severe expression.

“Not a problem at all,” he said and made a head-movement towards the spot where the burly man had just stood. “Actually, he isn’t as scary as he seems to be. You should see him when he’s sober. A little innocent lamb.”

Newt couldn’t help but laugh at the image, and soon after he was joined by Graves’ low chuckle. He sobered up when he felt the weight of the older man’s gaze on him, glinting eyes tracing slowly over his body until they rested on his face, their depths as black as charcoal in the semi-darkness of the room.

Newt found himself being hypnotized by their intensity and he nearly missed out Mr. Graves’ hand retreating from his back, leaving a strange sense of emptiness behind. He was about to wonder what Mr. Graves thought about his appearance, when said man pulled him out if his thoughts by asking, “Excuse my straightforwardness, Mister Scamander, but you don’t seem quite at ease. Is it your first time attending this kind of event?”

Newt felt his face flush and he sheepishly looked to the side, letting out a nervous laugh. “Ah… Is it that obvious?”

Mr. Graves chuckled and looked around the filled room, taking in the scene of chattering people minding their activities while waiting for the upcoming show to begin. There was a sardonic edge to his voice when he replied, “No need to feel ashamed. I myself am not very fond of this whole circus.”

A bit surprised by the uttered confession, Newt perked up and met Mr. Graves’ gaze with a confused look. “Is that so? I’m sorry but-- I have trouble believing it. You look so confident and--”

Newt shut his mouth before another potentially embarrassing phrase could escape his lips. Graves answered with a little quirk to his mouth, his eyes gleaming like dark orbs.

“Years of practice,” he said dryly and pulled a watch attached to a golden chain from his pocket, frowning as he read the hour. A barely audible sigh left his lips when he flipped it shut, and Newt wanted to ask if everything was alright when Mr. Graves added apologetically, “There is a table that has been reserved for me. Unfortunately, I have to endure the whole evening at this place. If you don’t have any objections, you are free to join me.”

Newt’s breath hitched as he processed what he just heard, a sense of giddiness making his fingertips tingle and heart skip a beat. Feeling both touched and emboldened by the expectant look on Mr. Graves’ face, Newt teased in fake offence, “Oh, so you want to take advantage of my attendance because you’re bored? That’s not very gentlemanlike, Mister Graves.”

Before the artist could feel embarrassed by his risky move, Mr. Graves cocked his head, a slow smirk spreading over his handsome face.

“Then allow me to rectify my bad choice of wording, Mister Scamander,” he drawled and Newt could have sworn that the man’s voice had dropped an octave. “If I’m inviting you it’s because I genuinely appreciate your company. Would you like to grace this evening with your presence?”

Newt could only nod in acquiescence, sensing that it if he opened his mouth, he wouldn’t be able to restrain the flow of eager ‘yes, pleases’, which would have surely put him in an awkward situation.

Mr. Graves seemed to be satisfied with his response. With a curt nod of his own, he led a bewildered Newt towards a table that stood near the stage on which were already standing the piano and microphone, ready to be inaugurated by the upcoming show.

As they settled themselves on opposing seats at each side of the table, Newt was suddenly struck by the unbelievable fact that he was sitting with _the_ Mr. Graves. A man who seemed to be truly interested in knowing him better… And Newt had absolutely no clue how to deal with it.

The redhead could already feel the familiar knot forming in his throat and his hands starting to sweat, but before it could get worse, Mr. Graves waved a waiter over and laid out his order in a clipped tone, blessedly sparing Newt the constraint to search for a passable drink the overcomplicated menu had to offer.

Once the waiter was away with their order, Mr. Graves pulled the silver scarf from his neck and put it on the armrest next to his cane, and Newt found his eyes glued to the man’s hand skimming through his black hair, a few strands falling over his forehead.

Newt was so transfixed by the movement that he didn’t hear the question Mr. Graves had directed at him, and he quickly pulled himself together with a flushed face, clearing his throat when the older man’s questioning gaze was fixated on him.

“Um, excuse me, what did you say?”

Mr. Graves smiled and leaned back on his seat, laying his hands casually on each armrest, his piercing eyes glimmering in the candlelight.

“I was just wondering who might be the man who drew a flattering picture of me a day ago,” he said and trailed an absent finger over the armrest’s ridges, oblivious to the way Newt averted his eyes and bit his lip, the tips of his ears turning red. “I know your name, but I’m curious to learn where you’re coming from… So, you’re an artist?”

Newt laughed nervously, internally trying not to squirm on his seat. “Well, yes I am. I have been invited by the owner of the hotel, actually. He wants me to show my paintings at a vernissage which will take place here in a few days.”

The redhead couldn’t help but preen under the impressed expression crossing over Graves’ face. “Ah, is that so? I’ve heard about an upcoming art exhibit, but I didn’t know it would be in your honor.”

“It’s still quite overwhelming for me, I must say,” Newt admitted shyly and examined the calluses on his fingers, acutely aware of Mr. Graves looking at him. “It’s the first time that I’ll be able to expose my works at an actual event. Before I came to meet Monsieur Binet, it was difficult for me to find someone who was interested enough in buying my paintings.”

Mr. Graves hummed in understanding. “An artist’s life isn’t easy, especially when they don’t have the right sponsors.”

“I’m not complaining,” Newt said with a light chuckle. “I may come from a modest family, but I’ve always managed to make ends meet in the end… And even travel around the world.”

Mr. Graves raised both eyebrows, detaching his back from the seat to lean both elbows on the armrests’ edges, intertwining his hands. 

“You’re an interesting man, Mister Scamander.” 

Newt was on the point of thinking that Mr. Graves was joking, but his doubts were squashed when he met his gaze, so focused on him - with a mix of genuine curiosity and something else Newt couldn’t put his finger on - that he instantly felt warm inside, a pleasant shudder running down his spine.

“That’s not true, Mister Graves.” Newt gave a self-deprecating laugh. “My life isn’t as interesting as it seems. I just paint a lot and travel on other occasions.”

“You’re far too modest.” Mr. Graves paused when the waiter came back with their order and presented a plate full of amuse-bouche and other appetizers on the table, accompanied by a bottle of wine that seemed to be far too precious to waste a drop. 

As soon as their glasses were filled, and after taking one taste from an appetizer, Mr. Graves spoke up again with a low voice, “There is so much to learn from someone who has seen other countries and met different cultures. I bet your travels have quite inspired your creative soul.”

“In a sense, yes,” Newt said, feeling flustered by the man’s praise, and Mr. Graves answered with a smile, the candle on the table casting a warm and fluttering light on his face, softening his features, making him seem more open.

“Tell me more about your drawings,” he said after a minute of companionable silence, taking a sip from his wineglass, his dark eyes still intently focused on Newt.

Newt didn’t know if it was the wine having such a warming effect on him, to the point of loosening his tongue, but the more he told about his drawings and travels, the less nervous he felt in Mr. Graves’ presence. He found that it was even soothing and refreshing to have someone who seemed truly interested in what he had to say, and even shared most of his point of views on the world’s current situation. 

He was pleased to find in Mr. Graves a good listener and conversation partner who would speak up now and then to point something out and add an interesting remark, always in his poised and respectful manner, with a touch of dry humor.

Newt didn’t know if the man was aware of that, but he emanated a warm aura that made Newt feel at ease the more time he spent in his company. He found himself enjoying their conversation, more than he’d ever thought. 

“I don’t like it when people compare my art to Munch,” Newt said after a third glass of wine, savoring the warm liquid running down his throat. “It’s not that I don’t like Munch, but it’s more gratifying when people actually appreciate me for my own style.”

“People will always compare things to other things they’re familiar with when they try to understand something that isn’t of their domain. It’s unnerving, but the truth,” Mr. Graves said matter-of-factly and examined his glass with a frown, before downing it with a big swig. “Though, I understand your frustration. I have the impression that especially painters and writers have to endure this kind of critiques.”

“Oh yes, I had to deal with some annoying remarks in the past,” Newt admitted and laughed when Mr. Graves muttered “People.” into his wineglass, theatrically rolling his eyes. 

His smile warmed Newt from the inside out, and feeling emboldened, the redhead wet his lips, ducking his head, and said, “I think I have annoyed you way too much with my ramblings. I didn’t let you talk about yourself.”

Newt gave Graves a tentative look from under his fringe and he nearly missed the way the man’s posture turned slightly rigid, a guarded look appearing in his bottomless eyes. 

Confused by the display, Newt started to wonder if he had said something wrong; until it suddenly dawned on him that Mr. Graves had avoided anything that could touch his own persona, immediately turning the conversation towards another subject with a quick-witted reply as soon as the attention landed on him.

Newt wasn’t sure if it was a defense mechanism or just the closed-off behavior of someone who needed a little coaxing before opening up, but as his thoughts went to the moment he had spent eavesdropping on the conversation Mr. Graves had with Credence, something told him that there was more to the man’s demeanor than what transpired on the surface.

Seeing the stern, impassive look returning on the man’s face felt like a painful pinch to Newt’s heart, and he quickly wanted to say something to change the conversation on a lighter level, less tense, when Mr. Graves said flatly, “My life would only bore you, Mister Scamander. And I’m not even joking.”

Newt was surprised to see that now it was Mr. Graves who looked away, his eyes planted firmly on the wineglass cradled in his hand.

“I think I can decide for myself if your anecdotes bore me or not,” Newt replied cautiously, smiling tentatively when Mr. Graves met his gaze. 

“I’m curious to know what you do besides visiting this hotel. I’m sorry if I might be wrong, but you seem so different to me unlike the other people gathered here… In a good sense of course,” Newt added, blushing furiously and averting his gaze, already embarrassed of what he just said.

A chuckle pulled him out of his ruminations, warmth and relief filling his chest when he met Mr. Graves’ amused gaze.

“You aren’t quite wrong on that,” the man said solemnly, though his smile remained in place, widening slightly when Newt reciprocated with a shy smile of his own. “Let’s say in a romantic way… that I practice a form of art. Perhaps not as colorful as what you do.”

Newt had trouble to suppress the eagerness in his tone as he exclaimed, “I’m always glad to know more about all forms of arts, Mister Graves.”

That earned him a puff of laughter, a pleasant sound that Newt wished to be longer when Mr. Graves sobered up and threw him a look, his shoulders still shaking.

“Well, then I can tell you with an easy mind that I am a physician.”

Newt blinked.

“The art of healing…” 

The artist found himself watching the other man with a mix of awe and amplified curiosity. It was a new facet that revealed itself in front of him, showing a glimpse of Mr. Graves’ past.

The man’s eyes that looked so ageless, cunning and full of hidden emotions suddenly seemed sharper, with a hint of weariness. 

It was the eyes of someone who had seen many deaths and pain, yet also recovery and hope.

“It’s such a noble profession,” Newt breathed, the redness in his ears taking a darker shade when Mr. Graves looked at him with an unreadable expression. “It fits you.”

Mr. Graves snorted. 

“You think too highly of me. In reality, the job has its dark and nasty facets.” A ghost of a smile splayed on his face, his eyes fixating Newt with a soft gleam in their depths. “Though, I appreciate the compliment. Thank you, Mister Scamander.”

“My profession isn’t a fairytale either,” Newt retorted teasingly, hiding his smile behind his glass, wetting his lips when Mr. Graves chuckled and his gaze adopted again that look that made Newt feel warm and light-headed all over.

“I have no doubt,” the man admitted and lifted his glass in cheers, prompting Newt to lift his own glass in turn, and a little crystalline sound filled the air as they clanged them together.

The gesture felt like a seal, somehow. A promise of another hopeful meeting.

Newt had just downed his glass with a warming buzz unfurling in his stomach, when someone suddenly appeared on the stage and announced the arrival of the singer who was going to entertain the public with their songs.

The chandelier-lights where dimmed, plunging the lounge in a cozy twilight, and soon after a wave of applause resonated through the room as a woman dressed in a sumptuous gown, and a silk scarf flowing around her neck, entered the stage and waved at the cheering guests, followed by the pianist who immediately took his seat before the piano.

When he started playing the first notes, everything else went silent and all eyes were focused on the singer whose fingers took hold of the microphone, her eyes closing as she cocked her hips to the rhythm of the melody. 

Newt felt himself relaxing to the rich sound thrumming through his body as her strong and baritone voice flowed through the room, putting everyone under a soothing spell. Without his own accord, the redhead turned his head, throwing a timid glance at Mr. Graves, and startled when he found the other man already looking at him, his half-lidded eyes gleaming like heated coals in the trembling candlelight.

Newt swallowed, incapable of pulling his gaze away, his face turning bright red when Mr. Graves’ eyes followed the movement of his adam’s apple. Suddenly, he had the impression that the air was turning heavier, making it impossible for him to breathe, his clothes becoming too tight for his shivering body.

“Mister Graves…?”

Newt couldn’t keep the tremor from his voice, wondering if the alcohol was responsible for the way he felt his body gradually becoming boneless and fuzzy like cotton. If the way the man looked at him was just his imagination playing him a farce…

The song came to an abrupt halt when an explosive crash detonated through the lounge, making the crystal chandeliers tremble and a few guests yell out in surprise. Newt nearly leapt out of his seat from the banging noise that left a loud ringing inside his ears. 

With a racing heart, he turned around to find the burly man who had confronted him earlier in the middle of a fight with another man displaying already one purple eye, both of them yelling and cursing at each other while sidestepping a massive bronze statue that had been brusquely pushed to the floor, its plinth lying in multiple fragments on the ground. 

While a few guests who were courageous enough to intervene tried to separate the shouting men, the artist heard another curse, this time coming from Mr. Graves.

When Newt turned his attention back to him, he was confronted with the image of Graves releasing his shattered wineglass with his face contorting in pain, his hand bleeding profusely, a few shards still stuck in the injured flesh.

Newt’s eyes widened in shock.

“Mister Graves, you’re bleeding!”

The man grunted in response, waving his uninjured hand dismissively, though the way his limbs were shaking didn’t go unnoticed to the artist.

“I’m alright,” Mr. Graves said gruffly, blinking rapidly as if he had just woken up from a daze. “I… I’ve been startled by the noise, that’s all.”

“You literally crushed your glass with your bare hand, Mister Graves, we have to treat this immediately,” Newt replied urgently, still unsettled by the man’s odd reaction. 

His confusion kept growing when all the man did was stare at his bleeding hand with an absent look, his mind suddenly seeming far-away.

“Mister Graves…” 

Newt tentatively put his hand on the man’s trembling arm, fighting the increasing worry and painful clench in his chest when Mr. Graves remained unnervingly quiet. 

“Please, let’s go… I-I’ll treat your wound,” Newt whispered softly, overwhelming relief rushing through him when the man finally seemed to come back into the present, his unsteady gaze slowly focusing on the artist’s face.

Newt gave a timid smile in return, hoping that it would soothe the man, and gingerly turned the injured hand towards himself, attentively inspecting the wound.

“The wound doesn’t look profound, but it’ll be difficult to remove all the shards from your palm,” Newt mused, which got him a strained chuckle in answer, and a relieved curl of pleasure spread in his chest at the comforting sound.

“Don’t feel obligated to help me, Mister Scamander. I’ll take care of this,” Mr. Graves said with a twitching smile, his voice laced with a rough edge. “I apologize for the inconvenience.”

“I _want_ to help,” Newt replied stubbornly, his face flushing in embarrassment at the eager sound in his voice. He added in a calmer tone, “Let me at least assist you, Mister Graves. It will be less painful that way.”

Mr. Graves gave him an unreadable look, making the artist squirm nervously in his seat, until he sighed, his face suddenly seeming years older, and muttered a tired, “Alright.”

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is how I see the lounge.  
> 
> 
> I apologize in advance if it takes long to update, I always have to struggle with work and study, but I'll give my best to write whenever I have the opportunity! :D Thank you for reading! <3
> 
> My [gramander blog](https://sassy-percy-graves.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three is up! 
> 
> Omg, you guys, I'm blown away by all your awesome comments, you can't imagine how happy they make me! For someone whose native language isn't english, it gives me so much motivation to continue writing and improve, I won't stop saying that all your words and kudos mean a lot to me. <3
> 
> I apologize for the long wait, now that I've started working, combined with studying, I have less free time. But I write whenever I have the opportunity. :D (and I had to think over the plot in detail) I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint. For those who are waiting for Percival's POV, you'll get it soon, promise. ;)

“I think it’s wiser if we take the elevator,” Newt said as he and Mr. Graves stepped out of the lounge, both men sighing in unison when the deafening silence of the empty reception hall greeted their arrival. It was a great contrast to the chaotic and tumultuous state the lounge was in at this moment.

“As long as we get away from this goddamn place,” Mr. Graves muttered and pulled impatiently at his bowtie with his uninjured hand while holding the cane at the same time. After a few fruitless attempts, he cursed under his breath and dropped his hand in defeat, the bowtie lying askew against his throat.

Newt, who had been watching the whole scene with a sense of uncertainty, finally took pity on him and approached the older man with careful steps, slowly lifting his hands towards the bowtie.

Sensing that the man was still in a skittish state since the incident, Newt stopped in mid-movement and looked up, meeting Mr. Graves’ wary gaze.

“May I..?” he asked softly, waiting patiently for his reply. He resisted the urge to lower his head and avert his eyes when the other man scrutinized him with piercing eyes, as if searching for a hidden malevolent intent in Newt’s behavior. 

After a brief pause, Mr. Graves gave a curt nod and Newt let out an inaudible breath, his hands closing the rest of the distance and loosening the fabric with nimble fingers, mindful of not making any brusque movements. 

He was suddenly aware of their close proximity when he caught a whiff of Mr. Graves’ aftershave. It was a woody and pleasant scent that made him want to draw closer towards the man in hope to catch more of the masculine and soothing fragrance.

Newt felt himself blush at the thought, and he quickly took a step back - putting a safe distance between him and the other man - once he was sure the bowtie was released from its knot. 

He cleared his throat and looked to the side, mumbling, “All done, Mister Graves.”

The artist wasn’t aware of Mr. Graves watching him with an unreadable glint to his eyes, until said man answered with a low hum, “Thank you. I thought I was starting to suffocate.”

He let out a sheepish chuckle, causing Newt to look up and smile timidly in return.

“That’s understandable. Also, the atmosphere in the lounge was a bit too oppressive for my taste.”

“You don’t say,” Mr. Graves huffed, his eyes widening in fake outrage, and both men laughed. Newt could see the strain slowly leaving the older man’s rigid posture and it made him feel a spark of warmth and relief.

“We should go now. I don’t want this expensive carpet to be stained with blood,” Mr. Graves said with a wry twitch to his mouth, and Newt nodded and jumped into action, already making his way towards the elevator.

Once they arrived there, a sudden thought came to the redhead, making him hesitate. He chewed on his lower lip.

“Um, should we go to my room or..?”

“I have all the medical supplies we need, so, going to _my_ room is the more obvious solution,” Mr. Graves assured him and stepped first into the elevator, oblivious to the blush spreading over Newt’s entire face.

The artist didn’t know why the prospect of following Graves into his room put him in such a flustered state. Maybe it was the fact that he was now on the verge of walking into the man’s territory, which also meant taking another big step into Mr. Graves’ private life. 

Now he was going to see another facet of the doctor and it made him giddy in anticipation. His heart rate started to speed up when he suddenly came to the realization that this time they wouldn’t be surrounded by other people and ear deafening noise, like it was the case at the lounge. They were going to be alone in Mr. Graves’ room, and Newt would call himself a liar if he said that he didn’t feel at least a bit nervous and lightheaded.

The artist was so absorbed in his swirling thoughts, that he barely heard the sound of the elevator coming to a halt at the destined floor and the lift attendant opening the gate. 

Mr. Graves nodded at the uniformed man in thanks and walked ahead, crossing the dimly lit corridor with Newt on his heels. Once they arrived at their destination, the artist couldn’t help the surprised gasp escaping his lips when his eyes settled on the curvy golden letters engraved on the wooden door.

 _Room 24_.

Mr. Graves casted a questioning glance towards the artist, his hand lingering on the doorknob.

“Is something the matter?”

“Oh… uh, nothing really,” Newt sputtered and quickly proceeded to take the ebony cane from Mr. Graves’ hand, giving the other man the room to open the door without any hindrance. He ducked his head and absentmindedly trailed his fingers over the smooth material. 

“It’s just funny that your room is practically next to mine,” Newt added with a shy smile, already wondering internally if he should have maybe kept his words to himself.

Mr. Graves hummed and arched his brows in mild surprise.

“Well, that’s funny indeed. So, yours is twenty-six?”

“Yes.”

“You’re very lucky, it’s a nice room. It has the best view on the sea.”

Before Newt could ask if Mr. Graves used to reside in this room like Theseus did in the past, the older man pushed the door open and ushered the artist inside with a welcoming incline of his head.

“I apologize for all the mess, I hadn’t the opportunity yet to rearrange my paperwork,” the doctor said over his shoulder while heading with hurried steps into the bathroom, a clattering sound filling the air as he rummaged in the cupboards.

Newt answered with an absent “Hmm.” and looked around the room with shy curiosity. 

The interior design and arrangement of furniture shared quite many similarities with his own room, except for the color of the walls that seemed to be a shade darker, and the presence of a piano standing next to the fireplace. Instead of one bed, there were two beds that were separated by a nightstand. One of them was neatly made while the other was ruffled and covered with scattered documents and books piling up on the sheets.

As the artist took a few steps towards the study table standing in front of the balcony window, he could recognize various medical prescriptions and other papers filled with complex diagrams and messy sketches of what seemed to be treatment methods lying on the table’s surface. Newt barely understood anything of what he saw; nonetheless, he couldn’t suppress the sense of admiration growing in his chest when he let his eyes settle over the elegant and sinuous handwriting that was probably belonging to Mr. Graves.

Newt’s contemplation came to an abrupt end when he heard the sound of something falling with a loud clatter on the floor, followed by a frustrated groan.

Suddenly remembering why he was in Mr. Graves’ hotel room in the first place, the artist hastily dashed towards the bathroom, his hammering heart skipping a beat as he pushed the door to the side.

He found Mr. Graves sitting in a hunched position on the bathtub’s edge, his face twisted in a painful grimace as he pressed the palm of his uninjured hand against his temple. Alarmed, Newt stepped forward and laid a hand on Graves’ shoulder, his worry spiking when the older man let out another strained groan.

“Mister Graves, what’s wrong? Can I--”

Newt paused, anxiously gnawing on his lower lip when the man minutely shook his head in reply and ran a hand over his face, his eyes blinking blearily as he tried to focus on his surroundings; but he immediately pinched them shut as soon as he blinked at the strong light of the bathroom-lamp.

“No need to worry. Just my migraines acting up…,” Mr. Graves grunted and waved a hand towards a brown bottle lying in scattered pieces on the immaculate bathroom-tiles, a clear transparent liquid flowing out of its contents. “It took me by surprise when I was searching for the damned antiseptic.”

“Do you have another bottle, perhaps?” Newt inquired softly, internally forcing himself to calm his racing heartbeat. He let his eyes wander around the room, his hand still steadily remaining on Mr. Graves’ tense shoulder. 

“I can bring it to you,” the artist added, a glimmer of relief warming his chest when Mr. Graves slowly started to relax under the gentle squeeze of his hand.

Mr. Graves rubbed his eyes with a tired sigh and pointed at the study table near the window.

“There is a bag on the table where I stack all my supplies; there should be a rest of Dakin’s solution. Oh, and since you’re at it-- bring me a pair of tweezers and the kidney tray, please. They’re already sterilized.”

“Alright. But promise me you won’t fall into the bathtub while I’m gone,” Newt scolded fondly and his heart gave a pleasant flutter when the smooth laughter of the man sitting before him graced his hearing.

“I won’t faint, don’t worry,” Mr. Graves said with an amused twinkle in his dark eyes that suddenly appeared a little sunken and red-rimmed. 

It was odd to see him in this vulnerable state and Newt couldn’t ignore the painful pang in his chest as he quickly turned around and left the bathroom, not wanting Mr. Graves to see his worried expression. 

As he found the big leather bag on the table and started to search for the requested supplies, Newt’s thoughts kept wandering to the incident at the lounge. He wasn’t naïve to ignore the fact that Mr. Graves’ reaction in response to the ruckus wasn’t a normal behavior. He seemed to be extremely sensitive to loud noise and to big crowds for a certain amount of time. Ultimately, it made Newt wonder what must have been the cause to this condition that clearly put the older man under stress and pain.

Newt also couldn’t forget the moment Mr. Graves had eyed him suspiciously when he had tried to loosen his bowtie. Like a caged animal, ready to lash out…

Before his musings could get any further, Newt forced himself back to the present, shaking his head, and joined the doctor in the bathroom with the supplies in hand. By the time he arrived, Mr. Graves had moved from his spot to sit down on the shut toilet lid next to the sink, his bad leg stretched out before him and his back resting against the wall in a relaxed position, his strained eyes falling shut, thick eyelashes casting dark shadows over sharp cheekbones.

Despite the aching state Mr. Graves was in, he still hadn’t lost one part of his regal aura, the crisp black tuxedo highlighting his handsome appearance and strong shape of his body. If the situation wasn’t an urgent one, Newt would have gladly put the scene before him onto a canvas, the vulnerability and power of an enigmatic man engraved on a piece of paper for the rest of eternity.

The artist fought the flush of color that threatened to pink his freckled skin and cleared his throat, gingerly settling the utensils on the sink next to the man. 

“Everything’s here, Mister Graves. I granted myself the liberty to also take some padding, gauze and petroleum jelly, if it’s alright with you.”

Mr. Graves opened his eyes, dark orbs slowly focusing on the young artist, and straightened his back, letting out a low sound of approval.

“No, it’s excellent. That’s all we need. Thank you,” he murmured in a raspy voice that instantly created goose-bumps on Newt’s skin, and laid his injured hand over the sink while the other reached for the tweezers lying next to the kidney tray. 

“Wait.”

Newt rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and gently, yet decisively took the metallic device from the older man’s loose grasp.

“Let me do this. Please.”

After a brief moment of hesitation, Mr. Graves nodded and reluctantly leaned back against the wall, his eyelids falling on half-mast as he sighed, “As you wish.”

Newt offered him a comforting smile and slowly pulled Mr. Graves’ limp hand further over the sink, turning the injured palm up. As he leaned over the wound, he noticed at least three glass shards stuck in the skin, but after further inspection it didn’t seem as bad as it looked.

With delicate precision, he pinched the first shard with the pair of tweezers and removed it from the flesh, then put the stained particle into the kidney tray. Newt imagined that it surely must have been a little painful, but Mr. Graves barely flinched, half lidded eyes observing the artist with calm curiosity. Strangely, being watched by the man didn’t unsettle him. Newt found a certain serenity in the act, memories of past incidents flowing into his mind in which he had been in the same situation, taking care of a wounded creature…

The deafening, yet calming silence that reigned in the room was disrupted by the sound of lukewarm water flowing from the faucet as Newt pulled Graves’ hand under the stream, the transparent liquid turning pink and red as blood was flushed into the hole.

“You’re very good at this,” Mr. Graves pointed out with a little quirk upwards to his lips once Newt had finished cleaning the wound with the solution and applied a bit of petroleum jelly, then proceeded to gently wrap the hand with a roll of gauze, mindful of preserving the limb’s mobility.

The artist met Mr. Graves’ soft gaze for a brief second before ducking his head, hiding a self-conscious but pleased smile. 

“I’ve had my fare share with wounded beings during my past travels. Humans and animals alike,” Newt murmured and was suddenly very interested in the way Mr. Graves’ fingers looked as callused as his own delicate ones, skin rough and thick from years of labor. 

The artist gave a little chuckle and added, “Also… I’m quite clumsy, so… I often had to treat myself too.”

“Clumsy, you? I doubt that,” Mr. Graves replied with a teasing smile and looked down at his bandaged hand, still cradled in Newt’s gentle grasp.

The artist stifled a gasp when the older man suddenly laid his uninjured hand over his; calloused fingers enveloping freckled skin in a warm embrace. A shudder ran down his spine as Mr. Graves briefly traced his knuckles with a thumb, and then quietly said, “Today I’ve learned that you’re not only an artist, but also a wonderful healer. I feel blessed. Thank you, Mister Scamander.”

Too flustered by Mr. Graves’ uttered words, Newt could only produce a timid smile, looking up to meet the doctor’s eyes with a fluttering heart.

“You flatter me too much, Mister Graves, but… you’re welcome. Always glad to help,” he replied with a slight tremor to his voice. The weight of Mr. Graves’ grip sent a pleasant prickle through his skin, yet Newt withdrew his hand and quickly stood up, turning his head to the side in an attempt to hide the deep flush on his cheeks.

If Mr. Graves was perturbed by Newt’s avoidance, he didn’t let it show. As he stood up and walked with a slight limp towards the door, he beckoned the artist to follow him into the main room and proceeded to divest himself of his tuxedo coat, dropping it unceremoniously on the nearest armchair.

“Do you want to stay for a while and have something else to drink? I think I still have some lemonade left,” the doctor said with an apologetic smile, but Newt shook his head, although the thought of spending more time with Mr. Graves was very appealing, especially when the man looked so relaxed - with the loose bowtie and unbuttoned waistcoat - despite the barely concealed pain and exhaustion visible in those dark eyes.

“I think I already took enough of your time, Mister Graves. You should rest,” the artist replied resolutely but with a soft smile, his breath hitching when Mr. Graves slowly approached him, his head cocked to one side.

“Actually, I was hoping to make up for the inconvenience I’ve caused you earlier,” the older man said with a deep furrow to his brows, ignoring Newt’s attempt to protest as he added in a more lighter, hopeful tone, “It would be my great pleasure if we could meet again. Under better circumstances, that is.” 

Newt felt a rush of warmth filling his chest as he processed what he just heard, his heart making a leap at the prospect of having another meeting with Mr. Graves. 

Still, he hesitated.

“You really don’t have to-- I imagine you must be busy.” 

Newt’s voice trailed off as Mr. Graves chuckled, his eyes twinkling.

“I wouldn’t be asking to see you again if I didn’t want to, Mister Scamander,” he said mildly. “Though, I won’t insist if you don’t--”

“Oh. No, the feeling is mutual,” Newt blurted out without thinking, and he cleared his throat as he felt his face turning scarlet. “It’d be delightful if we could see each other…”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Mr. Graves breathed, his smile widening. 

There was a brief pause before he asked, “Tell me, Mister Scamander. Have you heard about the _New York Botanical Garden_?”

A bit confused by the sudden change of subject, Newt nodded.

“Yes, but I hadn’t the opportunity yet to visit this place.” He couldn’t hide the curiosity from his tone as he inquired, “Why?”

“Tomorrow, there is an exhibition of a new plant collection. As a botany enthusiast, I intend to go there.” Mr. Graves laid his bandaged hand against his chest in a show of humility, his charcoal eyes looking at Newt with expectation. “I’d be more than honored if you would accept to pay the garden a visit with me.”

Newt should have been concerned at how fast he had already made up his mind before Mr. Graves had even finished his sentence. The artist nodded enthusiastically, unable to restrain the eager smile spreading across his face. 

“That sounds wonderful. Who am I to refuse your invitation, Mister Graves,” he said with a timid tease, feeling warm when Mr. Graves mirrored his smile with a vivid gleam in his eyes.

“It is settled then,” the doctor murmured, voice intent. “I’ll be at the reception hall, tomorrow morning after breakfast.” He paused. “Is it fine with you?”

“Perfectly fine,” Newt replied and huffed out a laugh when Mr. Graves’ grin suddenly morphed into a badly concealed yawn, the tiredness now clearly visible on his sharp features.

“I think I’m going to leave now. You’re barely able to keep your eyes open,” the artist joked and the older man let out a sheepish chuckle.

“Touché.”

They exchanged a light laughter that slowly faded into silence as they both assessed each other with tentative, yet intense looks. Newt was the first one to break their eye-contact, feeling giddy and invaded by a pulsating heat spreading inside his limbs as he felt the weight of Mr. Graves’ piercing gaze on him.

“I, uh--” Newt casted the older man a quick glance from under his fringe, suddenly feeling awkward. He intently looked down at Mr. Graves’ shiny oxford shoes as he mumbled, “Goodnight, Mister Graves. I’m glad we had the chance to see each other today.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Mr. Graves hummed, his gaze turning warm and coaxing as he ducked his head to meet the artist’s green orbs. “You embellished this evening with your charming presence and I’m grateful for that. I’m looking forward to our next meet.”

Newt answered with a bashful smile, too flustered to speak after hearing the uttered compliment that made him giddy in a pleasant way.

He saw Mr. Graves’ thin lips parting as if to say something - a hesitant look appearing in his depths - but then the older male took a step back, his mouth twisting into a wry smile.

“Goodnight, Mister Scamander.”

Newt blinked, slightly puzzled, but then he quickly countered with a mirthful, “Take care of your wound.” and moved towards the door, leaving the room not before throwing one last furtive glance over his shoulder.

He didn’t hear Mr. Graves’ hushed reply as he closed the door behind him.

“I will.”

\---

Newt woke up the next morning with a throbbing headache.

The anticipation of meeting a certain physician had kept him awake for many hours, his restless thoughts swirling like a carousel, the events of the past evening replaying in his head. Newt had the impression that he and Mr. Graves had truly bonded during the time they had spent conversing, and it made him feel even more attracted to the man, wanting to learn more about him. 

The way Mr. Graves’ attention seemed to be so intently focused on him put the artist in a permanent state of lightheadedness, and it overwhelmed him to some degree, unsure of how he should react to the way the man covered him with compliments and heated looks. Maybe it was Newt’s wishful thinking, but it flattered him to see the man having a genuine interest in him, although, there was a tiny voice in his head that nagged at him in the deepest corners of his mind. Telling him that he wasn’t worthy of the man’s attention. That this couldn’t be real. And if so… Newt would only disappoint him. 

Before the dark, all too familiar intrusive thoughts could spoil his mood, Newt jumped out of the bed and proceeded to order a room service, automatically opting for a breakfast within his own four walls.

As he munched on a piece of croissant, he rummaged in his suitcase, wondering what should be the best suited clothing for a morning walk at a botanical garden. Since the day was going to be quite warm and sunny, a shirt and a pair of supple slacks would do the work.

After multiple fittings and frustrated grimacing before the mirror, Newt finally settled for his favorite beige pants, a white cotton shirt which’s sleeves could be easily rolled up, and a tight fitting brown waistcoat with light-green stitches on its edges. It wasn’t the most comfortable one, but he found it highlighted the slim shape of his body and put his subtle curves under a more tantalizing light. The artist mentally shook his head - his face turning red - as he surprised himself subconsciously searching for a cloth that might catch Mr. Graves’ eye.

Newt didn’t bother fumbling with his hair, knowing fully well that whenever he’d try another hairstyle, his rebellious curls would return to their usual form.

As he grabbed his bag and sketchbook, he threw another glance at his reflection in the mirror, assessing the image he displayed. He instantly noticed the way his tanned skin had turned a shade darker during the time spent under the sea sun, his freckles seeming more numerous than ever. 

With mixed feelings, Newt let out a sigh and left his hotel room, his heart already beating fast against his ribcage as his thoughts wandered towards the doctor waiting for him at the reception hall.

\---

As expected, Newt found the older man sitting on one of the armchairs near the reception counter, looking handsome as ever in his dark blue slacks and matching shirt. The shirt was unbuttoned the way down to his sternal angle, revealing a peek on salt and pepper-colored chest hair.

Newt’s feet came to a halt on the last staircase as he let his eyes roam unabashedly over the man’s features, taking in the new details coming on full display. Mr. Graves seemed to have returned to his usual calm and collected demeanor, the warm and tired look Newt had seen the night before now replaced by an impassive and stern expression, eyebrows furrowed as if he was mad at something.

If Newt hadn’t already seen the man’s softer side, he would have thought twice before talking to him.

Still, there was a slight hesitance to the artist’s steps as he slowly made his way towards the doctor, his heart skipping a beat when the man looked up and met his eyes.

“Mister Scamander.”

Mr. Graves left his seat and approached the artist, a gentle smile lightening up his face as he took Newt’s hand in greeting.

“How are you doing today? I hope you’ve slept well.”

A warm, buzzing feeling spread in Newt’s chest as he mirrored the man’s contagious smile, slightly bewildered by how fast Mr. Graves’ icy expression had disappeared.

“I’m fine, thank you, Mister Graves,” the redhead replied and gestured at Mr. Graves’ bandaged hand. “How is your hand doing?”

“Oh, quite fine. It barely hurts,” the doctor chuckled, a slow smirk spreading over his face. “I was in very capable hands yesterday.”

Newt forced himself to keep from averting his eyes, the tips of his ears turning bright red. Christ, how was he going to survive the day without becoming a blushing and stuttering mess?

“I didn’t let you wait for too long, I hope?” he managed to ask, to which Mr. Graves shook his head in reassurance.

“No, I arrived only ten minutes ago.” He nodded towards the exit. “Shall we?”

Newt squinted as they stepped into the blazing sunlight, a soft and salty breeze blowing across the parking lot, making the trees' leaves rustle. The artist took a deep breath, savoring the sea air that soothed his nerves for a bit.

“We’re going to take my car,” Mr. Graves said when he noticed Newt throwing a glance at an assembly of cabs aligning not far from the hotel building.

The artist had to hold back a choked noise of awe as he followed the doctor’s direction and his eyes settled on a majestic, burgundy-colored convertible Chrysler standing proudly among the other parked vehicles, its polished shell shining brightly under the sunlight. With Mr. Graves standing next to the automobile - all lopsided grin and proud stance - it looked as if the image just came out of a magazine.

“Jump in.” 

Mr. Graves beckoned Newt to step into the passenger seat by opening the door for him with an inviting tilt of his head, making the artist blush as he followed his lead, barely able to hide a flattered smile. Newt was about to think that Mr. Graves was trying to impress him. But it would be too good to be true…

He was pulled out of his thoughts when Mr. Graves seated himself next to him and started the vehicle, a rumble flaring up as the engine came to life.

“Comfortable?” the doctor asked and Newt nodded, leaning back against the warm leather seat with a content sigh.

“Yes, thank you… It’s a beautiful car.”

Mr. Graves smiled in response. As they left the parking lot and the vehicle gained in speed, the wind became stronger and blew Graves’ hair out of its slicked-back state, dark strands falling loose over his fore-head. Newt felt the urge to card his fingers through them and brush them gently back behind the man’s ear.

They fell into comfortable silence as the car drove through the city, high buildings and colorful trees passing by. Newt found he could stay like that forever. Let the wind pass through his curls and his eyes settle on the man sitting next to him, his narrowed eyes looking ahead on the street.

Newt was starting to get drowsy by the gentle rocking of the car and continuous rumble, when Mr. Graves spoke up.

“Normally, it’s Credence who drives me around when I need to go somewhere. My leg gets all stiff and numb when I drive for more than thirty minutes.”

Newt perked up.

“Credence?”

“I’m sorry. I remember I haven’t introduced you to each other,” the older man admitted with an apologetic smile, his gaze still planted firmly on the road. “You’ll get the chance to meet him again soon.”

Licking his dry lips, Newt shifted in his seat, hesitating, before he asked slowly, “Is he your…”

“My adoptive son, so to speak.” Mr. Graves’ expression turned serious as he added, “He used to live in an orphanage that was led by a group of abusive, religious fanatics. All I can say is that I’m glad I could take him under my wing before it was too late.”

Newt listened to Mr. Graves’ words with a held breath, his heart clenching with sympathy. He remembered the sweet looking young man with his long wavy hair and meek look. Eyes big and innocent, yet full of rebellious energy and brightness. Suddenly, the complicity that seemed to reign between him and Mr. Graves started to make more sense. 

Mr. Graves had saved the boy from a living nightmare, and now it appeared that Credence was adamant about protecting Graves in return from anything that might hurt him. Newt could only guess on what may have happened in the doctor’s life, given how little he knew about him. 

It was strange. This need to come closer to Mr. Graves. To understand him better…

“I’m happy for both of you. You must be a good father,” Newt said tentatively, looking to the side and biting his lip when he felt Mr. Graves’ gaze on him for a brief moment.

The older man let out a self-deprecating huff.

“I’m trying my best. I’m more like a mentor, rather than a father. And sometimes,” Mr. Graves winced as if thinking about an uncomfortable memory, “I have the impression our roles are reversed. He’s always nagging me about my busy life. How I’m not taking care of myself and all that. It’s exhausting.”

“He seems to be a wise man, I like him,” Newt conceded, fighting a grin as Mr. Graves threw him a side-glance, muttering, “I feel betrayed.”

Newt’s giggle morphed into a laugh, his chest flooding with warmth as Mr. Graves joined him with a low chuckle of his own, not able to hold up his fake displeased expression for much longer. 

“You two are going to get along quite well, I’m sure of that,” the doctor observed, to which Newt responded with a hum, leaning back in his seat, feeling more at ease and relaxed than ever.

It didn’t take long until they arrived at their destination. The loud traffic noise of the city faded into the distance as they approached the wide parcel of earth on which resided the botanical garden of Bronx. Newt straightened up when he caught a glimpse of the tip of a glass dome peeking between the trees as the car drove through an alee of various blooming plants, its colorfulness giving a foretaste of what was awaiting them.

It was only once Mr. Graves parked the car before the gate that Newt finally gained a full view on the vast domain. A series of walkways gave entrance to different gardens, each one of them having their own particularity. The one that stood out the most was a breathtaking rose garden that spread its pink, red and orange-colored net across the area; one of its walkways leading towards a greenhouse made up of large glass pavilions that were laid out in a symmetrical pattern around a majestic central pavilion, a cathedral-like dome reflecting the sunrays like a halo.

Although it was still early in the morning, a few groups of visitors were already gathering at the entrance, their animated chattering growing louder as Newt and Mr. Graves walked through the gate.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” 

Mr. Graves gestured towards the myriad of roses blooming around them, their intoxicating perfumes tickling the artist’s nose in a pleasant manner.

“It’s incredible,” Newt admitted and let his gaze trail over the flowers’ different shapes and colors, each one of them seeming to have its own uniqueness. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen such a big amount of roses.”

“During your travels, I presume?” Mr. Graves asked with a smile, and Newt gave a light chuckle, scratching his neck.

“Yes, um, I’ve come across many different plant species. Though, I can’t say that I know their virtues and uses. I mostly studied their shapes, so I can recreate them on canvas.”

Mr. Graves let out a sound of acknowledgement, his dark bottomless eyes taking on a glint that made Newt’s face heat up a bit as they met the artist’s green ones.

“It would be wonderful if you could show me your works. Since the day I’ve seen the portrait you made of me, I’m curious to know what else you can draw with your creative mind.”

“For that, you have to come to my art exhibit in a few days,” Newt breathed, his heart already beating fast in excitement at the prospect of Mr. Graves attending the event and seeing his paintings. “I’d be glad if you could be there.”

“Nothing would delight me more,” the older man murmured, voice deep and rough like sandpaper brushing over Newt’s skin, making him shiver.

They sidestepped a group of visitors walking past them, which gave Newt the time to regain his composure and calm his racing heartbeat, staring to the ground in a moment of self-hatred at how fast he became awkward and flustered each time the menace that was Mr. Graves gave him one of his charming smiles.

“This is the Haupt Conservatory,” the doctor explained as they strolled towards the greenhouse, the sun immersing both men and the idyllic décor in a warm light. “Each pavilion contains various groups of plants coming from around the world. Maybe you’ll recognize some of them.”

“You think so?” Newt joked and looked around with hardly concealed curiosity once they stepped through the main entrance of the glass house, the dry air from outside turning warmer and humid the further they walked into the pavilion.

It felt as if they were in a jungle. Lush tropical plants of different shapes and sizes threw their shadows on the heated stone floor, their green splendor on full display. Newt could hear the soothing sound of a water stream flowing in the background, indicating that somewhere there was a courtyard with water lilies and other aquatic plants.

Even if the artist wasn’t new to this kind of place, there was a certain charm to this greenhouse. It felt like a protective glass cocoon containing its own little flora.

Newt found himself relaxing to the earthy smell and calmness reigning inside the pavilion, the silence only disturbed by the muffled sound of his and Mr. Graves’ unhurried footsteps. It felt strange, yet pleasing to stroll with the older man through the glasshouse like friends who knew each other since ages.

“I often come here when I need a place to sort out my thoughts or just be by myself,” Mr. Graves said with a ghost of a smile, a distant look adorning his features. “Each flower has its own significance, virtue and language. Yet, they all together have the same calming effect. I look at them-- and I already feel less stressed out.”

Newt hummed in agreement, instantly relating to his words. Knowing that Mr. Graves felt as connected to nature as him made his heart swell with something that made him feel even more drawn to the man.

Nature had always been a place where Newt could retreat whenever human interaction became too much to bear. Whether it was in poppy fields or dense forests, they were places where the artist drew most of his inspiration from. 

Newt always annoyed people. Deceived them. At least in flowers or animals he could find a place of solace. Nature didn’t judge, and there was something comforting about this fact.

“That’s how I feel about them too,” Newt said, shyly mirroring Mr. Graves’ smile as they looked at each other. “Do you speak the language of flowers, Mister Graves?”

At those words, the doctor’s smile widened, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He let out a chuckle and looked to the side, his gaze wandering over fragrant flowers.

“If you talk about their symbolic aspect, then yes. I have to admit, I’m particularly fond of it.” There was a sheepish edge to his tone as he continued, “It all started when I was a teenager and my father - a real botany enthusiast - started to attach to each member of my family a flower that expressed their personality. Including me.”

“That sounds interesting. Which was yours?” Newt asked curiously, not able to suppress a cheeky grin when Mr. Graves snorted and gave him a helpless look.

“He called me ‘ _Black Hollyhock_ ’. Sounds pretty lame when you hear it for the first time,” he scowled, and Newt let out a puff of laughter, his shoulders shaking.

“I think that sounds nice. There is also a powerful ambiance to it,” the artist noted in a conciliatory tone. “I bet its signification isn’t that bad. What does it mean?”

“Ambitious, tenacious, protective...” A wry smile spread on Mr. Graves’ lips. “Dramatic.”

“Are you?”

“Dramatic? I haven’t heard people complaining about me ‘til now.”

There was a playful glint in his eyes, which drew another laugh from Newt. 

Newt was once again pleasantly surprised at how easy and comforting it was to talk with Mr. Graves. Once the initial awkwardness was more or less gone, the artist had less difficulty to speak out about something without feeling embarrassed about himself. Maybe it was also the older man’s poised and humble demeanor that gave him the feeling that he could trust him, contrary to most people he’d encountered in the past.

As they passed another row of exotic plants, Newt’s eyes were suddenly drawn to a particularly angry red flower that stood out among the others, its thin stem struggling to hold the puffy crown upright. The artist walked up to it and slowly reached out, his fingertips barely grazing the soft petals.

“I wonder what kind of flower I’d be,” he murmured absently, oblivious to Mr. Graves approaching him from behind, his piercing eyes trailing over the artist’s lithe figure.

“ _Centaurea cyanus_. A cornflower.”

Newt turned around, his heart nearly leaping out of his ribcage as he realized how close they were standing to one another. He was suddenly unable to tear his eyes away from Mr. Graves’ bottomless eyes, their intensity pinning him in place like needles, making him breathless. 

A shudder ran down his spine as the older man breathed, “It means that you are radiant, coy and tender.” His voice turned into a low purr as he added, “Yet also adventurous, wild… Untamable.”

Mr. Graves reached out, gingerly brushing a strand of Newt’s fringe to the side so he could better look into the artist’s aquamarine depths. Not expecting the gesture, Newt could only stand there and let it happen, his face turning scarlet as he felt the lingering touch of Mr. Graves’ calloused fingers on his fore-head.

“It’s especially the color of your eyes that remind me of the cornflower,” the doctor said with a whisper, his eyebrows slightly drawn together as he withdrew his hand. “However, I think that even this flower is looking pale in comparison to the unique beauty of your eyes.”

Swallowing past the pounding of his heart, Newt croaked a weak “ _Oh_ …”.

He was incapable of saying anything else, feeling overwhelmed by the way his body reacted to the older man’s praise and proximity.

Seeming to interpret something else in Newt’s bewildered state, Mr. Graves took a step back and cleared his throat, suddenly looking tense and a tad self-conscious, and Newt mentally hit himself. There he was already ruining the moment, not even able of forming a coherent sentence or at least show with a little gesture that he was more than flattered by the man’s words.

Newt’s heart stuttered as he heard the man say, “I’m… sorry. It wasn’t my intention to make you feel uncomfortable.” 

Mr. Graves looked to the side, a scowl darkening his handsome features, which drove a painful pinch to the redhead’s chest. 

“N-no, it’s not what you think, Mister Graves,” Newt sputtered hastily, internally cursing his awkwardness, and wrung his hands as he added shyly, “It’s… it’s just that I’m not used to being complimented like that…” _Being treated as if I was the most treasured thing by someone I barely know_ …

A bit of the tension drained from Mr. Graves’ face, yet there was still a trace of doubt in his eyes as he turned his head to meet the artist’s gaze.

Licking his dry lips, Newt approached him and offered a tentative smile, mumbling, “I must confess, I always have trouble believing the person’s honesty when they say nice words to me.”

“I meant every word I said,” Mr. Graves said with a sudden ardent gleam in his eyes that nearly rendered the artist speechless again. The older man’s voice was barely above a whisper as he added with insistence, “You can maybe deny my honesty, but don’t ever doubt of your own self-worth, regardless of what anyone says about you.”

“I wish someone would have said that to me years ago,” Newt huffed out humorlessly without thinking, the bitter aftertaste of buried memories creeping up in his mind, the invisible scars on his heart still itching, reminding him of their lingering existence.

 _You useless boy_ …

Newt bit the inside of his cheek in an attempt to maintain a neutral expression and peered down at his feet, afraid of losing his composure if he looked any longer into the older man’s soft, yet piercing gaze. 

He shouldn’t have said that. He was slowly letting Mr. Graves step into his life, finding himself showing a glimpse of his own vulnerability, and it terrified him. 

Mr. Graves seemed to catch on Newt’s inner turmoil, refraining himself from pressing the matter by staying silent, and Newt was thankful for that. 

The artist didn’t expect their conversation to take such a turn, and suddenly he felt awkward all over again, not knowing what he could say to lighten up the mood for a bit or just change the subject. 

He nearly jumped when he felt Mr. Graves’ fingers brush lightly against his shoulder, and he looked up to see the man offering him his arm, a coaxing smile splayed on his face.

“Shall we visit another garden? We can also go back to the car if you want,” he said with a warm gaze, and Newt found himself blushing again as he stared at Mr. Graves’ offered arm, before blinking as if snapping out of a dream.

He met the doctor’s gaze, searching for a sign of pity or mockery in those dark orbs, but he only saw warmth, calmness and something else that made his heart flutter.

Forcing himself to not look around if any passersby were in the area, Newt slipped his arm beneath Mr. Graves’, his freckled hand resting on the man’s wrist. 

“I’d gladly visit another garden, if it’s alright,” the redhead said with a timid smile, the tension gradually leaving his body as he let the grounding cradle of Mr. Graves’ arm envelop his limb.

Mr. Graves pulled his own arm closer to his body, pulling the artist against him in the process, and smiled at him with half-lidded eyes, his voice a soothing whisper.

“Anything you wish.”

\---

Newt didn’t know how many hours had passed as they kept walking through the numerous themed gardens, but he could say with a certainty that those hours were one of the best moments of his life.

As they strolled on the walkway, the flow of their conversations didn’t seem to lose an ounce of its rhythm and appeal. On the contrary, Newt found himself chattering and rambling on without restraint under the fond and calm gaze of Mr. Graves who, for his part, didn’t talk as much but wasn’t in lack of wit and humor.

Newt was aware that he could sometimes go overboard with his eagerness about a subject he was invested in - ending up annoying most people afterwards - but it didn’t seem to bother the doctor, who kept listening to the artist with rapt attention, his charcoal eyes never leaving Newt’s face, which produced a pleasant and euphoric feeling in his chest, making him all the more excited.

It was late in the afternoon when both men finally ended up in the parking lot, walking towards the car with slow, unhurried steps, a comforting silence stretching between them. They were tired from the long wandering, but it was a pleasant kind of exhaustion.

Newt had to stifle a laugh when he saw Mr. Graves struggling to open the door, his keys falling to the floor with a clatter as his hand missed the keyhole. When the man only kept staring down at the keys with a scowl, Newt couldn’t take it anymore.

He let out a series of giggles as he leaned against the passenger-door, his laugh only growing louder when Mr. Graves met his eyes, his thick eyebrows a straight comical line above his eyes.

“Instead of standing there mocking an old man, help me pick up those goddamn keys,” he grumbled, the corners of his mouth twitching as he tried to maintain a stoic expression. 

He failed miserably and joined Newt’s laughter with a huff, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he watched the artist finally take pity on him and round the car to search for the keys.

“Ah, Mister Graves. What would you do without me,” Newt scolded fondly and pressed the keys into the doctor’s open palm.

“Probably break his leg in the process of squatting down, like the old fart he is,” a sudden foreign voice said behind them, making Newt jump and turn around with a yelp.

His eyes landed on a man who seemed to be nearly Graves’ age standing with a lopsided grin and both hands resting on his hips at the other end of the parking lot. The man made a mock military salute when Mr. Graves’ eyes narrowed in recognition.

“Goddamnit, Lionel. You nearly gave me a heart attack,” he exclaimed as the man approached them with a light swagger to his steps, eyes twinkling with mirth.

“Aw, how I missed you, Graves,” he retorted with a laugh and pulled the frowning doctor into a hug, which Mr. Graves returned with reluctance.

“Lionel. We saw each other like-- two weeks ago.”

“It’s a very long time!” the man pouted in fake offense, to which Mr. Graves only snorted and scratched the back of his head as he gave a puzzled Newt an apologetic look.

“Newt, let me introduce to you this disaster of a man, Lionel Parker. He works as a chemist at a family owned apothecary. Lionel, this is Newt Scamander. Remember when I told you about an upcoming art exhibit at the _Aubépine hotel_? Well, here’s our artist. He came expressly from Great-Britain.”

“Oh, well, hello there.” Lionel gave Newt a beaming smile and walked up to him to energetically shake his hand. “Let me introduce myself properly. I’m Graves’ old-time friend, part-time mom and occasional booze provider. Pleased to meet you.”

“Stop talking nonsense,” Mr. Graves muttered, to which Lionel only responded with a laugh.

“P-pleased to meet you too, Mister Parker,” Newt stammered, still a bit bewildered by the man’s vivid and enthusiastic demeanor.

If Newt had to describe the man with only one word, it would be ‘sunny’. 

Despite the dark clothes he wore and his brown hair that was slicked back in the same strict fashion as Mr. Graves’, he had a bright face and a contagious crooked smile. His eyes were big and heavy-lidded with dark circles under them, displaying an air of mischief and a certain spark of sensuality, all of it contrasted by the sky-blue color of his orbs and thick eyelashes, making him look innocent and carefree despite the similar age he seemed to share with Mr. Graves.

“Shouldn’t you be in DC?” Mr. Graves asked with an arched eyebrow, and Lionel released Newt’s hand to turn towards his friend, one corner of his mouth pulled up in a smirk.

“Nah, the conference has been cancelled. So I thought, why not pay my favorite pavilion and the library a visit?” 

Suddenly, he threw Newt an assessing glance, his eyes trailing over his form as if examining him for any flaws. Newt was starting to feel uncomfortable, when Lionel finally drawled, “My, Graves… I didn’t know you were in such sweet company. It’s not your style to walk people around in a rose garden as if you were on some honeymoon.”

“Shut up.”

Mr. Graves threw Lionel a dark look, which only increased the other man’s glee. Lionel seemed to be focused again on staring at Newt with big eyes, his grin widening as he asked, “I apologize for my straightforwardness, but may I ask how you met each other?”

Newt flushed at the question, his mind automatically wandering to a certain drawing; but before he could mumble a response, Mr. Graves preempted him with a curt, “As I said, he gives an art exhibit at the hotel. We met there while I was taking a stroll at the beach.”

Ignoring Mr. Graves’ response, Lionel smiled charmingly at the blushing artist and said, “I would gladly come to your exhibit and see your paintings. They must be wonderful.”

“Oh, uh… You’re most welcome. Thank you,” Newt replied with a sheepish smile, not able to restrain an amused chuckle when Mr. Graves cleared his throat at Lionel who turned around with a smug grin on his face.

“It’s nice to see you, Lionel, but we must go. We’re both tired.”

“Damn, you’re so rude, Val. And I was thinking we could chat for a bit,” Lionel teased, and Newt perked up at what the chemist had just said. 

_Val_?

“We can talk when you visit me at the hotel,” Mr. Graves said with a sigh and clapped his friend’s shoulder. “Now if you please excuse us…”

“Wait.” Lionel peered up at Mr. Graves, piercing blue eyes suddenly looking serious. “How is it going with that Howell guy? Is he still…?”

He paused, eyebrows drawn up as Mr. Graves minutely shook his head with an unreadable look, the muscles of his jaw clenching, before he pressed out, “Not now, Nel. Later.”

Different expressions passed over Lionel’s expressive face. First he looked puzzled, then concerned, nearly pained; and then a grim look settled over his face.

“Of course,” he said softly, his frown deepening. “I’m sorry.”

Newt, who had been following their exchange with an odd feeling unfurling in his stomach, felt even more confused than before. He wanted to ask what was going on, but he sensed that now wasn’t the right time. Mr. Graves looked strained and weary, despite the neutral mask he had carefully put on, which only increased Newt’s worry.

The artist was nearly shocked at how fast Lionel’s uncharacteristically serious expression turned back to its cheerfulness as the chemist suddenly exclaimed, “Well, I’m not going to keep you any longer. It was such a pleasant surprise to see you here, aaand-” he turned towards Newt with a flirtatious smile on his lips and took his hand, “it was nice meeting you, Mister Scamander. It pains me that we can’t get further acquainted today, but I’ll definitely attend to your vernissage.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Mister Parker,” Newt replied with a slight blush to his cheeks.

“Leave him alone now, will you? Or he’s going to change his mind,” Mr. Graves huffed with an edge of annoyance, though, there was an amused glint in his eyes as he grabbed the chemist by the arm and dragged him away from Newt.

“Yeah, whatever,” Lionel snorted with a mirthful grin, escaping out of Mr. Graves’ grip like a weasel. “Don’t forget to take your pills, Val. I’m still searching for a more suitable treatment for your migraines.”

“As if I’d forget them,” Mr. Graves deadpanned. This time he indulged himself a fond smile as the chemist pulled him into another crushing hug. “See you later, pal.”

“Take care,” Lionel breathed, pointedly ignoring the doctor’s bandaged hand, but Newt could see the brief flash of worry appearing in his eyes, before it disappeared as soon as it came.

The pharmacist made hand sign in goodbye and winked at them before he turned on his heel and walked back towards the gate, leaving Newt and Mr. Graves alone.

“Well, that was Lionel for you,” Mr. Graves said after a moment of awkward silence. 

“He is… special,” Newt conceded, and the older man laughed, still looking with a kind of exasperated fondness at the gate where the chemist had just disappeared.

“Yes, he’s borderline ‘crazy’, but he has a big heart. Too big for his own good.”

As they settled themselves in the automobile, Newt shifted in his seat and stopped Mr. Graves with a tentative touch to his wrist before he could start the car.

The artist gnawed on his lower lip, averting his eyes as he felt the older man’s questioning gaze on him. In his head spun the temptation to ask if there was any way he could help. If there was a way of alleviating the strange burden that seemed to weigh on the man’s shoulders…

But he reeled back, his heart leaping in his chest as he whispered instead, “I had a very pleasant day, Mister Graves. Thank you for everything.”

There was a brief silence before he felt the warm weight of Mr. Graves’ palm on his hand, calloused fingers brushing lightly over delicate knuckles.

“ _Percival_.”

“Huh?”

Newt looked up, his breath hitching when he met the man’s eyes, their dark depths looking at him with intensity. The physician gently squeezed Newt’s hand, his gaze softening.

“Call me ‘Percival’.”

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The flirt and courting is strong with Percival. :')
> 
> Here I found a nice photo from the New York Botanical Garden. I've never visited this place, so, sorry if there are some inaccuracies.  
> 
> 
> Next chapter we'll finally get to Newt's art exhibit, and we'll get to know more about Percival's past soon.  
> Two things I wanted to add:
> 
> \- For Lionel's character I had the actor Jake Gyllenhaal in mind, a bit with the same style he has in the movie "Prisoners" but less gloomy. :P In this story Lionel plays a big part in Graves' past.  
> \- Just one last detail: Percival takes ergotamine pills for his migraines, but it has many side effects. So you'll see why it doesn't help him that much. It was only in the 90's that the first triptans were launched.
> 
> Thank you so so much again for reading! <3 As said before, you can find me on [Tumblr](https://sassy-percy-graves.tumblr.com/).


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After many months, finally, chapter 4 is up! :'D *sweats*
> 
> I apologize for my extremely long absence! Long story short, my health has deteriorated during the past months, and it has taken quite a toll on my work and daily life, making it hard for me to get the mental force to write at least a few paragraphs a day. Now I'm getting much better though despite my chronic pain, and I really hope that from now on I can update more regularly. This fic is very dear to me, and your comments really keep me going, I'm still so grateful for all the support you've given me! 
> 
> This chapter has become huuuuge!! I hope the length doesn't bother much... Percival's POV starts at the second half of this chapter, and it has gotten quite long. I hope you like it though! Enjoy ;)

Time went by at a very quick rate and before Newt realized it, only two days were left before the inauguration of his art exhibit.

A mix of excitement and dread pulled at his stomach, making it churn painfully and rendering him into a state of constant nervous anticipation. Yet, the artist found no valid reason to be so anxious to the point of feeling sick. Everything had been meticulously planned and rearranged to his liking. He had spent the previous days looking over his paintings and their emplacement in the hotel’s exposition hall, under the joyful supervision of M. Binet. 

The redhead had made sure to bring more recent works of his, which he added to the other paintings his commissioner had received over the past years, much to M. Binet’s delight.

While Newt walked across the sumptuous hall and let his scrutinizing gaze trail along the displayed canvases, the image of him talking about his creations before a mass of attentive spectators appeared in front of his mind’s eye.

The prospect of guests coming to look at his paintings and follow his every word and gesture - him, being in the great limelight for the first time in his life - made him want to cancel everything in a moment of crippling self-doubt, despite the little glimmer of pride sparking inside his chest when he thought about the recognition he would finally get as soon as people would start to approve his work. It was his first tiny step into the notorious world and it made him feel giddy all over.

Perhaps this was going to be a new opportunity for him to gain new clients, leading him towards the goal to hopefully be able to obtain a semblance of a name among the community of well-known artists.

But what if no one liked his works? What if he wasn’t good enough? What if he was actually mediocre and good for nothing? Newt was aware that particularly rich upper-class people could be extremely critical and nitpicky when it came to art. But surely they were cultured enough to take a new piece of art at least into consideration.

Newt startled out of his musings when he felt the weight of M. Binet’s heavy hand on his shoulder, and as he met the man’s encouraging gaze, he realized with embarrassment that he undoubtedly must have looked miserable right then.

“Don’t worry, Mister Scamander. I’m sure it will be just fine,” the older man said in reassurance, and Newt sighed.

“I don’t know if I can make it, to be honest,” the artist replied with a sense of defeat in his tone and lifted his head to look up at a tall painting hanging on the wall in front of him, its golden frame glowing in the flickering chandelier light of the exhibition hall. It was the image of a merchant sitting among his goods next to a campfire, the tall and black silhouettes of the pyramids of Giza towering above him like protective shields in the midnight darkness, the soft glow of the flames being the only source of light.

As Newt contemplated the painting, he was plunged back into the memories of the first days he had spent in Egypt, searching for peculiar places to visit and draw. He remembered the bite of the desert sun on his skin, the bustling souqs of _Khan el-Khalili_ in Cairo, and the statues of innumerable temples engraved in stone pillars throwing their inquisitive gazes at him, their placid eyes displaying an ancient wisdom and a story of a bygone past where they used to be worshipped and treasured.

He had met a group of British archeologists who were busy working on the discovery and decrypting of a tomb that had unfortunately been plundered by thieves centuries ago, the sanctuary of a once venerated Pharaoh befallen and tarnished for his innumerable amount of priceless, sacred belongings. As one of the egyptologists led Newt around the site, chattering on with excitement about all the discoveries he and his crew had been making, the artist couldn’t help but feel a sense of guilt and uneasiness as soon as he set foot into the tunnel leading toward the tomb, the oppressive narrow walls and the suffocating darkness stringing his throat into a knot, making the air around him impossible to breathe.

The experience of stepping into the domain of someone known as long dead - disturbing and invading a place that wasn’t destined to their prying eyes in the first place - had left Newt ill at ease for days.

It was a fortunate moment when weeks later, during his stay in Cairo, he got acquainted with an old merchant walking past him with his livestock while Newt was busy sketching his surroundings at the Giza area. That day had been particularly hot, and Newt had trouble ignoring the burning pain on his scalp as he realized that he had once again forgotten his straw hat at the guesthouse he was residing at.

He could remember the merchant throwing him a long scolding look, muttering that he shouldn’t be outside when the sun was at its peak; that white skin was prone to being easily burnt like a fried gambari. 

The artist didn’t expect him to pull an indigo scarf out of his bag and hand it over to him with a grumbled ‘ _Put this on your head before you get a stroke_.’ and start to make a lecture about other places Newt had to visit if he wanted to draw something that would really be worth it.

Without realizing, Newt became quickly enthralled by the telling of the merchant, and they found themselves exchanging anecdotes about their life. The artist had learned that day that the merchant’s name was _Tarek_ and that he used to work as an interpreter for English tourists when Egypt was under the British protectorate, a few years before the great anti-colonial riots began in 1919.

They had been talking for hours, not realizing how the sky became darker at a very fast pace, the blazing sun leaving its place for the chilling cold of an Egyptian desert night. 

Noticing Newt’s growing discomfort, Tarek had proceeded to make a small fire and then went on reciting ancient stories, seemingly happy to have a conversation partner who was thrilled to learn more about his land’s history; his wrinkled face illuminated by the dancing flames, wise and lively eyes reflecting the light like molten amber. 

Newt found himself absorbed in the hushed sound of Tarek’s voice, the calm desert wind bringing the melodious chants of the muezzins calling for prayer, and the stars starting to make themselves visible on the cloudless sky. It had been a magical moment the artist wasn’t quick to forget. 

Sadly, it was the only and last time Newt had the chance to meet the man, but he made sure to immortalize the moment by painting the scene on a canvas, mindful of giving particular attention to the details and pouring the feeling of awe and reverence he had felt that night into his work. It was one of the few paintings he was truly proud of.

The canvas was one of the first ones Newt had lent M. Binet, his desire to make a good impression fueled by the encouragements of his brother Theseus who assured him that it wouldn’t take long before the owner of the _Aubépine hotel_ would send him a letter with a request for another painting before Newt could even blink. 

It had been now years ago, but he could clearly recall that memorable moment as if it was yesterday, when he realized that he was going to take commissions from his very first client. He wasn’t going to forget the ‘told-you-it’d-work’-look on Theseus’ smug face.

“This is still one of my favorites,” M. Binet observed as he followed Newt’s gaze and contemplated the painting with a content chuckle that made his walrus moustache tremble. “You’ve always managed to capture simple things and transform them into something wonderful. Magical, I’d say.”

“You’re too kind, Monsieur Binet.”

Newt’s voice was a soft breath as he detached his gaze from the canvas with mixed feelings, a tiny pang of shame mingling among them as he found himself having hard time believing the man’s uttered words. There was no question that M. Binet was genuine. Though, his mind was invaded by the paralyzing thought that the man hadn’t just realized yet that Newt wasn’t as good as he used to think. It was only a matter of time until M. Binet would grow bored with his paintings and pass to someone else who was more competent and talented than him. 

Newt was aware that having those fears was irrational and that it was more than time for him to learn to take a goddamn compliment. However, he was afraid it would take more than a strong will to make the nagging voice in his head shut up once and for all.

“I’m only telling the truth,” M. Binet said matter-of-factly, and Newt answered with a shy, uneasy smile, hoping that for once he could put faith into his abilities and make something good out of the upcoming exhibit.

\---

During the last day before the fatidic event, Newt spent his remaining free time with Tina, unable to bring himself to stay at the hotel for some due rest, knowing fully well that he would only end up pacing back and forth in his room and torture his mind with all kinds of disaster scenarios.

When Tina called at the hotel and asked him if he wanted to have lunch with her, he eagerly accepted without thinking twice.

They set their place of meeting at a small, cozy café at the downtown area. It was a calm space which was on the first floor of a high building, its terrace giving a vast view on the thrumming activity of the city streets. The café was located in a way that luckily made most of the roaring traffic noise seem like a faraway echo whilst remaining close to the animated crowds at the same time.

As Newt stepped on the threshold, he was greeted with the spicy smell of nutmeg, coffee and freshly baked bread that instantly made his mouth water, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten anything this morning, plagued by a stomach ache that wouldn’t go away.

The place was small without being cramped and the overall décor displayed an air of simplicity and comfort, the red brick walls and the subdued light adding a soothing effect to the pleasant ambiance. It was a refreshing change to the luxurious and charged dining saloon of the _hotel Aubépine_ , which Newt still had trouble to get accustomed to.

The artist was about to cross the room when he heard someone yell his name, and he turned around to find Tina on the other side of the café at the terrace, waving at him with a wide grin on her face. She was perched on a high stool next to a table on which was already laying a plate filled with appetizing sandwiches. 

Tina looked gorgeous in her tweed knicker pants, matching scarf tie and supple blouse, giving her a laid-back and charming style that distinguished her from the other guests sitting around her. The red beret on her head made the paleness of her skin stand out while making her face all the more brighter and lovelier. Her smile was luminous and Newt found himself giving a cheeky grin in answer as he made his way toward her.

Warmth bloomed inside his belly as he was pulled into a tight hug, the strong embrace of Tina’s arms making the pent up tension in his body dissipate for a bit and make him lean his head against her shoulder with a shuddering sigh.

“Hey, Teen,” he mumbled and Tina let out a soft laugh in response, rubbing a comforting hand on his hunched back.

“My, you look tired today, Newt,” she teased and pulled back to look up at him, her brown eyes dancing across his face. “Are the Ford’s and Rockefeller’s at the hotel giving you a hard time?”

Newt huffed at her joke and looked sheepishly to the side, biting his lip.

“Frankly, I’d rather deal with the ire of a wealthy billionaire than attend the event that is awaiting me tomorrow.”

Tina let out a sound of sympathy and gave Newt’s arm a light squeeze as they seated themselves on the stools around their table.

“I imagine it must be quite overwhelming for you, being suddenly the host of a great vernissage,” Tina conceded while pushing the plate towards Newt, prompting him to take one sandwich. “But you finally have the opportunity to show people something extraordinary. I’ve never doubted that you’ll make it really far with your art someday.”

Her gaze softened when Newt lifted his head to give her an unconvinced look.

“Tomorrow is _your_ event, Newt. Regardless of the outcome, you’ll have had showed them a glimpse on your vision of the world,” she insisted and Newt sighed tiredly in response.

“That’s for that very reason I’m afraid, Tina.” 

Newt picked up a piece of cheese sandwich before his fingers were about to shake, forcing his breath to even out when he let his fingertips press into the soft bread. 

“Drawing has always been something personal for me. A refuge. My paintings are like a reflection of my inner thoughts and the way I see things around me.” 

He let his gaze linger for a beat on the moving crowds rushing past the café before he added, “The thought of letting people see this is like standing naked before them… if my words make any sense.”

An awkward laugh escaped Newt’s lips as he met Tina’s attentive gaze, and he fiddled with the seam of the tablecloth, mumbling, “One part of me wants them to recognize me… wants to meet other great artists and learn from them, so I can truly live from my passion and maybe gain some little renown. But at the same time I just want to be left alone and make sure that my art stays the way it is: private and untouched.”

Before his complaints could go any further, he pressed his mouth shut and fixated his eyes on a certain point across the balustrade of the terrace, unseeing, his fingernails pressed against his sweaty palms.

Newt could hit himself. Why couldn’t he just be grateful for the luck he had and rejoice with his friends who only wanted to encourage him?

His messy train of thought came to a halt when Tina spoke up after a brief pause, “I understand what you mean, Newt. And… there is nothing wrong in feeling that way, I assure you.”

She smiled, her eyes taking on a gentle glint when Newt looked up with an unsure expression.

“Revealing a great vulnerable part of oneself to the open world is scary and it takes guts. Not everyone is capable of doing that. And since your paintings are like an extension of yourself, I imagine how important they are to you. It’s understandable to be protective over them.”

The brunette reached out and took hold of Newt’s hand, giving a reassuring nod of her head as she added, “But you have this exceptional way to touch people with your art. You make a great impact and you don’t give yourself enough credit for it. Of course an interpretation of a painting will always vary from one person to another. But isn’t it what it’s all about? A piece of art should make someone think, pull at one’s emotions, and tickle one’s imagination. How do you know how people will react if you don’t let them _see_? Regardless of what will happen, your art and the emotions you put into it are still part of yourself and nobody can take that away from you.”

Newt sat silent for a few seconds, in loss of words. A mix of incredulousness and cautious hope lit up in his chest as he processed Tina’s words, the soft press of her hand creating a warm comforting feeling throughout his bones, making his heart stutter.

Suddenly, he felt ridiculous for having this ever-present self-doubt that always managed to drive him mad, to the point of needing the constant reassurance from his friend. Despite that, he felt touched and slightly replenished and he couldn’t help the little smile that started to shyly spread on his lips as he gave Tina’s hand a tentative squeeze in return.

“It’s unfair how you always find the right words, Tina,” he said, making Tina huff out a laugh, her eyes twinkling with mirth.

“You know you can always count on me,” she joked, before sobering up and giving him an insistent look. “But seriously, Newt. You’re so strong and the most independent, courageous person I know. I’m sure you can make it.”

Newt could only blush at her words and return her grin with a sheepish tilt of his head.

“Thank you… You don’t know how much this means to me.” He paused, gnawing on his lower lip. “I hope I haven’t spoilt the mood with my depressing ramblings, though. We’re supposed to have a nice lunch and talk about nice things, and I’m ruining it.”

“Newt. It’s alright.” Tina smiled at him and picked one of the sandwiches while pushing the plate further towards the redhead. “You’re never a bother, remember that.”

Before Newt could answer to that, Tina took one bite of the doughy bread and exclaimed, “But talking about nice things: how is your stay at the hotel? I imagine its architecture must be quite a sight to behold.”

“I think you have to see this for yourself,” Newt laughed, recalling the moment he had stepped for the first time into the overly-spacious and luxurious hotel room that apparently Theseus had occupied before. “When you walk into the reception hall, it feels as if you were in some kind of palace. Everything is so sumptuous and the scenery outside is magnificent.”

Before Newt could elaborate further, the sudden image of the beach appeared before his inner eye, the waves of the sea glittering like molten gems in the sunset and a tall silhouette walking by the shore; limping, yet striding with purpose, leaving fading footprints behind.

He jumped out of his dreamlike state when Tina chimed in with an impressed sound leaving her mouth, completely unaware of his momentary absence.

“I’m glad that you’re enjoying yourself. Your client is really taking good care of you,” she smirked, and Newt snorted in response.

“Indeed, Monsieur Binet makes sure that I get everything I need, but sometimes he goes a little overboard with the hotel’s expensive accommodations. Not that I’m complaining, though.”

Newt had trouble stifling a chuckle when Tina giggled at his words and shook her head, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

“There is no shame in wanting a little luxury once in a while,” she admitted before she straightened up and waved at a waiter who walked past their table. As he approached them, Tina gave Newt a sheepish smile and continued on a playful tone, “Well, this whole conversation gives me a sudden craving for another kind of luxury: ice cream.”

“You’re impossible,” Newt huffed, yet he couldn’t help but smile in amusement at Tina’s all-favorite vice that was ice cream and hot-dogs.

He felt a warm sensation of fondness and gratitude as he observed the brunette ordering two giant cups of _dame blanche_ ice cream with extra whipped cream, realizing how lucky he was to have such a supportive and considerate friend. He truly didn’t deserve her.

Once they got their order, Tina pushed one cup of ice cream under his nose with a gleeful “Enjoy!”, and for the first time Newt felt much better after having endured days of utter stress and exhaustion.

They both ate their ice cream in companionable silence until Tina gave a thoughtful hum and turned her head to look at the passersby walking past the terrace, a pensive expression settling over her face as she nibbled on her spoon.

“I wonder though… don’t you feel kind of lonely at this place? I mean…, it’s not like it’s thrilling to mingle among all those wealthy people who seem to live in their own world, detached from what we live here in our day-to-day lives.”

“Oh… I don’t really mind. I mostly keep to myself anyway,” Newt admitted with a shrug and a wry quirk to his lips. He paused, before adding shyly, “But I’ve made a few interesting acquaintances during the past days, which makes my stay far more enjoyable.”

Newt didn’t know why the last part slipped out of his mouth, but he couldn’t help it as his thoughts drifted towards Mr. Graves, the mental image of the handsome man instantly making his heart flutter and his cheeks grow warm. 

The walk with Mr. Graves at the botanical garden still felt like a dream to him, his mind trying to process that all of this had been real. The alluring gleam in the older man’s eyes when he looked at him. The soft brush of his calloused fingertips as he gently pushed the artist’s rebellious strands aside, igniting a tickling sensation that trailed down Newt’s spine, leaving him all flustered and lightheaded, just by that simple touch.

Newt felt as though he was floating on a cloud when Mr. Graves had walked him back to his hotel room, after their return from their trip, and bid him goodbye with the promise that they would meet again at the upcoming vernissage. The doctor sealed his pledge as he once again took hold of Newt’s slender hand and lifted it up - his lips nearly touching freckled skin - while bowing his head in a reverent tilt, causing the redhead to blush, barely able to hold Mr. Graves’ deep gaze.

As they parted, Newt’s nerves already thrummed in anticipation and growing excitement, and he wondered how their next meeting would play out. There was no denying by now that he felt a great attraction towards the man, and this fact equally thrilled and terrified him. He didn’t remember having felt such a mix of strong emotions for someone before, and he asked himself if he wasn’t maybe reading too much into their past interactions. Yet, it was difficult to stay unaffected when the older man’s charcoal eyes seemed to look at him with such intensity that it made his heart drum faster and his nerves sing.

Newt felt his cheeks grow hotter when an expression of wonder crossed Tina’s face, before it let place to a look of mischievous contempt as she smirked and then hummed, “’Far more enjoyable’, I see.”

“The way you say it makes me regret my choice of wording,” Newt complained, internally cursing himself for having a skin that was so prone to reddening.

“Well, excuse me, you just looked as if you were in a middle of a daydream,” Tina chuckled and hid her grin behind her hand when Newt’s blush started to cover his entire face.

“It is not what you think,” Newt muttered lamely, trying to regain a semblance of aloofness, which only seemed to increase Tina’s amusement. A hiccup slipped past her lips as she tried to calm her shaking shoulders. She quickly sobered up and gripped Newt’s hand in apology before he could cross his arms in offence.

“I’m sorry Newt, I just find you really cute, is all,” she said, making Newt huff in reply.

“You’re not helping at all, Tina,” he deadpanned, though, a sheepish smile tugged at his lips and he shook his head as he let out a sigh, unable to be mad at her.

The brunette gave a playful smile in return and squeezed Newt’s hand before she said, “Now I’m curious, though. Who is this lucky person who managed to gain your attention? I’ve never seen that look on your face before.”

Newt gnawed on his lower lip as he pondered how in the hell he should answer her question and where he should start. On one hand he wanted to tell her _everything_ , but on the other hand he worried that once he started, he wouldn’t be able to restrain himself. Afraid of giving away too much of what he felt in the core of his soul.

“Well… as said earlier… I’ve met someone,” he mumbled, avoiding Tina’s gaze, though he could feel the excited curiosity in her eyes as she processed his words, and she let out a hum, prompting him to go on.

Newt’s heart hammered in an urgent pace against his ribcage as he thought about his first encounter with Mr. Graves, remembering how he already felt drawn to the man the moment Mr. Graves had laid the lost key of his suitcase in his palm, unable to detach his gaze from the stern looking, yet hypnotizing eyes.

Newt wasn’t aware of the slight tremor in his voice as he said, “Please, Tina, don’t laugh at what I’m about to tell you. It might sound a little strange… I myself am still quite unsure about the way I should deal with all of-- this.”

The moment he looked up to meet Tina’s eyes, he was met with an expression of concern and gentle understanding.

“Of course I won’t laugh, you can tell me anything,” she said solemnly as she took his other hand for emphasis. “But I must admit you have me a little worried there, Newt. The way you say this makes me think that you’ve had a tumultuous adventure.”

Newt let out a self-conscious chuckle and ducked his head to look down at their linked hands.

“There is no need to be worried, I can assure you. It’s just-- you won’t believe in what circumstances I’ve met that person and what I did in order to see him again.”

“Given how reckless you can be sometimes, I can quite imagine how your encounter must’ve been,” Tina chuckled fondly before she said with an arched brow and pursed lips, “So, it is a man?”

Realizing that he had just given himself away once again, Newt sighed in defeat and replied sheepishly, “Y-Yes… a man.”

Newt waited for Tina to tease him, but she looked at him with such rapt attention and silent plea for him to continue, that it ignited a spark of confidence in him, and he felt his limbs slightly relax as he cleared his throat and added in a subdued tone, “Probably the most fascinating and handsomest man I’ve ever encountered.”

“My God, Newt,” Tina murmured with a sparkle in her eyes that made the artist blush all the more. “You’re totally smitten, aren’t you?”

“That’s-- a strong way to say it, but… maybe?” Newt laughed awkwardly, to which Tina scoffed fondly.

“That’s wonderful, Newt. I’m happy for you. Now tell me, how have you met him? Who is he?”

Tina’s excitement was contagious and Newt wondered if she knew how much alike she was to her sister sometimes, with her vibrant and curious nature that always left people amazed.

Under his friend’s prompting gaze, Newt finally recounted the past events that had led him to meet Mr. Graves. At first he stumbled a few times over his words, but as the minutes ticked by, he gradually felt more confident and he found himself propelled back to the moments he had spent with the man, completely immersed in his own narrating and unaware of the world around him.

By the time he finished, it was only then he remembered that he was still sitting in the middle of a crowded café - the loud chattering of the surrounding guests pulling him back to reality, bursting his bubble -, and given the way Tina looked at him with an expression of delight and wonder on her face, he must have gone quite deeply into the details. More than he had actually meant to.

The artist cleared his throat, feeling self-conscious all over again.

“It… feels surreal when you think of it,” he breathed as he stirred the rest of his ice cream which had become a molten pool by now. “At first I wanted to observe him from afar, feeling too shy and intimidated to talk to him. And yet…”

A sigh escaped Newt’s lips as he recalled how the overwhelming urge to draw Mr. Graves had struck him like a lightning bolt when he watched the man walking by the beach, the overall scenery igniting something in him that still left him breathless by the sheer force of it.

“Yet, it was that portrait you made of him which made him gravitate towards you again,” Tina finished and gave a cheeky grin when Newt’s ears turned bright red. “You have a strange manner to attract lonely men. But, it’s romantic in a way. He seems to have taken quite a liking to you.”

Before Newt could reply to that, her expression suddenly turned serious and her eyes narrowed slightly.

“Strange though… I have the impression I’ve heard his name before,” she mused and Newt perked up, his heart making a leap.

“You know him?” he asked incredulously, to which Tina answered with a grimace, biting pensively on her lower lip.

“I’m not sure. Wait… You said he is a doctor, right?”

Newt nodded his head with a frown, a sense of nervousness and curious anticipation making his stomach flip as he watched her fixating a random point in the room, lost in thought, until she suddenly let out a curse and slapped a hand against her forehead.

“My goodness, I can be so forgetful sometimes,” she exclaimed, and as she noticed Newt’s confused expression, she said, “It has been a year or so, Seraphina had to deal with some health issues. You remember? I’ve mentioned it in a letter I sent you.”

Newt gave an affirmative hum.

“Yes, I think you said that most physicians didn’t listen to her, which only made everything worse.”

“Exactly,” Tina huffed, her voice taking on an angry tone as she seemed to recall a particularly frustrating moment both she and Seraphina had gone through. “She complained about having headaches, muscle soreness and constant fatigue. Most doctors just brushed it off, saying that such symptoms are common when women have their period. All they prescribed to her were mere painkillers.”

Tina let out a frustrated sigh.

“It isn’t the first time since she has this condition. She always kind of lived with it, but this time it was particularly bad. She even passed out once.”

Newt’s heart clenched with sympathy. Unsure of what to say, he reached out to rub her arm in a comforting gesture and her stern expression softened as she squeezed his hand in return. 

“Anyway... Turned out that Seraphina has an iron deficiency anemia. If it is linked to her imbalanced diet, then I’m not sure anymore. But she is feeling so much better now since she has started taking supplements. She told me about a doctor who was considerate enough to listen to her and find the cause of her weakened state. Since then she always went to his cabinet for a regular consultation. She says it is rare to find a physician who isn’t a sexist and condescending douchebag.”

“And you think the doctor she sees is Mister Graves?” Newt asked, feeling slightly ashamed of how hopeful and eager he sounded, whereas his friend was still in emotional pain. 

Tina made an affirmative sound.

“Now I can say with conviction that it is him. Seraphina mentioned his name quite a few times before, but I must admit I never really cared to memorize it. I was just happy that her health was improving.”

Newt nodded in understanding, suddenly feeling giddy as he let Tina’s words sink in. He would never have imagined that his friends would know Mr. Graves, especially Seraphina Picquery. It was unusual, yet thrilling to learn from another person how the older man was; and the notion to hear so much praise gave Newt a dizzying feeling of pride and warmth. 

His thoughts were interrupted when Tina sighed tiredly and shook her head, the fine worry-lines at the corners of her eyes suddenly seeming more apparent.

“I don’t know if it is bad luck, but few weeks later Seraphina told me that his cabinet was going to close for an indefinite period... She was upset.”

Newt frowned, an uneasy feeling unfurling in his chest. 

“Perhaps he was going to practice his job somewhere else,” he guessed and his stomach made a painful twist when he saw a gloomy expression settling over Tina’s face.

“I don’t think so. Seraphina said that at her last consultation he only gave a vague answer when she asked him about this sudden decision. It was pure coincidence when she learned later on from a pharmacist that apparently he has been accused of physical assault on a former patient. He was found ‘not guilty’, but I guess it has already ruined his reputation. His cabinet is closed ‘til now.”

“Oh-- Oh my...”

Newt’s voice came to a stutter, his mind trying to digest the unexpected information. His worries only seemed to increase tenfold as the puzzle pieces started to assemble themselves, yet produced more unsolved questions. A gut feeling told him immediately that something else was behind the sudden discharge of Mister Graves. He only had to think about the distressed state Credence was in when he had warned Mr. Graves about a threat that seemed to hang over the doctor’s head like a black cloud.

The more Newt thought about it, the more desperate he was to know what was plaguing Mr. Graves. Though, a voice told him that this wasn’t his business. He would only end up unraveling something that would make the situation worse. If Mr. Graves didn’t want to talk about himself, then it was his complete right. Newt would be the first one to admit that he wasn’t comfortable in revealing personal details about his past either. 

However… he couldn’t explain to himself why he felt this visceral urge to take away the burden from the man’s shoulders.

“Are you alright, Newt? You seem lost,” Tina chimed in, concern creasing her eyebrows, and Newt quickly sobered up and gave her an apologetic smile.

“I’m fine. It’s just that… since I met him I have this nagging feeling that he has endured something horrible in the past. I can’t help but think that maybe it has something to do with this false accusation that has been thrown at him.”

“Maybe it is the case, and maybe not. As you just said, you barely know each other. Perhaps it’s for the best if you keep yourself out of his issues,” Tina commented and gripped Newt’s hand for emphasis. “Mister Graves seems like a good and righteous man. I believe you when you say that he makes you feel at ease. Heck, even Seraphina likes him. But he comes from high social status and you know in what kind of nasty conflicts wealthy people can be wrapped up sometimes.”

As she saw Newt’s stricken expression, Tina squeezed his hand in reassurance and added in a softer tone, “That doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t meet him again. I just want you to be careful.”

She suddenly winced and let out a sheepish chuckle, looking to the side.

“Boy, I hope I didn’t sound like some concerned, overprotective mom. I’m sorry, Newt.”

Newt shook his head and smiled tightly, swallowing past the lump that had formed inside his throat. 

“It’s alright, Tina. I understand. You’re probably right. I barely know him.” 

Newt didn’t know why he felt a painful pinch in his heart all of a sudden. Something in Tina’s words struck a chord in him that left a bitter aftertaste inside his mouth and he didn’t like it one bit. Maybe he was looking too much into the whole situation. Maybe Mr. Graves just needed a distraction from his complicated life and Newt just happened to be _convenient_. Nothing more.

The artist felt the all too familiar dark claws of his irrational fears clutch his insides, making it harder for him to breathe; and he had to press his fingernails against his palms so he could focus on the pain. This coping mechanism was another part he despised about himself, which didn’t help to lessen the amount of insecurities that never stopped to invade his mind and make him feel worthless.

He forced another smile he hoped looked conciliatory when Tina looked at him with worry still written plainly on her face.

“Don’t look at me like that. It’s fine,” he repeated, to which Tina replied with a huff of disbelief.

“No, it is not. You’re afraid that he’ll push you away once you start to get closer to him. But on the contrary,” Tina’s hazel eyes took on a bright and comforting glint as she looked at Newt with insistence, a mirthful smile tugging at her lips, “I have the impression that he is completely enchanted by you, given the way he treats you like a cherished treasure.”

“Tina…”

Newt felt his ears turn a few shades darker, and he had trouble to suppress the bashful smile that threatened to spread across his face. 

He really wanted to hope that it was true. That Mr. Graves saw in him someone who should be cherished. That this new and fragile thing they experienced together was more than a fleeting moment of attraction.

“You must see him, Tina. Mister Graves has such a great charisma. He is witty, eloquent… and there is a regal aura about him that makes him look all the more attractive. And he is so humble and kind.”

Newt thought about the conversations he had had with Mr. Graves when they were strolling among the rose bushes in the botanical garden, remembering how connected he had felt to him when he realized how liberating and thrilling it was to converse with the man. It was rare that the artist could talk confidently about his passions without the constant awkwardness that followed him everywhere whenever he talked to other people.

For the first time in years, Newt felt invigorated and unashamed about himself when he remembered how deeply Mr. Graves’ cunning eyes looked at him. A mix of genuine curiosity, calm attention and something indiscernible that left Newt with a hot feeling coiling inside his stomach, making him shudder. 

“I’m marveled at how easy it is to talk to him,” he mumbled mostly to himself, although he was aware of Tina listening. “Everything feels unforced and I genuinely love our conversations-- what?”

Newt was suddenly hyperaware of the shit-eating grin that spread across Tina’s face as she kept contemplating him with a vivid gleam in her eyes.

“Oh, nothing,” Tina shrugged, though she made no efforts to smother her grin. “It’s just that there is this great glow around you when you talk about him. I’ve only ever seen it when you had new inspiration for your paintings.”

 _Maybe he is my new muse_ , Newt immediately thought, and he was struck by how certain and right it felt to him.

He startled out of his thoughts when Tina said solemnly, “Anyway, I’m looking forward to your vernissage tomorrow. I want to make my own judgment of your Mister Charming.”

“Please, don’t scare him off,” Newt half-joked when he thought about the multiple times each past suitor who wanted to be close to Queenie cracked at some point and fled as soon as Tina’s critical eye loomed over them and her protective nature regarding her sister began to take unsettling proportions. It was not until Jacob came around that Tina’s approach became more lenient, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t still very distrustful of men in general.

Tina gave a secretive smile in response and tilted her head to the side.

“We’ll see,” she answered and gave a teasing chuckle when Newt arched one eyebrow in warning. “I’m just curious about him, is all.”

“Uh-huh,” Newt muttered, still a bit nervous about what kind of mischief Tina was up to this time, but the anxious feeling was quickly replaced by fluttering warmth as his mind drifted back towards the moment Mr. Graves had revealed his given name to the artist.

Perhaps there wasn’t anything special about it, but it made Newt feel closer to Mr. Graves. A timid relationship of trust was slowly starting to sprout between them, and Newt wanted to keep memory of this precious moment.

He kept playing and replaying in his head the way Mr. Graves’ given name sounded when it slipped past said man’s lips. It sounded elegant and knightly, and infused the listener with a sense of respect. To Newt it had felt like a raspy warmth enveloped in silk that caressed his sensitive skin, leaving tickling goose bumps in its wake.

It was nearly as though the artist could draw strength from that name, and one irrational, hopeless part in him believed it. 

Slowly, but gradually, he felt less stressed out about the upcoming event that was about to take place tomorrow, his growing confidence fueled by the prospect of calling Mr. Graves by his given name as soon as they would meet again.

Although he hadn’t spelled it out yet, he could still feel the way it curled around his lips, ready to slip out.

 _Percival_.

~~~

Percival Graves never once believed he was a dreamer. And if there had been a moment during his young years where he naively thought that he’d be able to cure everyone from their suffering as soon as he graduated from medical school, life had taught him that the world was far from being fair.

After numerous years of experience in his profession, he had learnt to build a wall between him and people around him; partly because it was expected from him as a doctor to keep a professional distance between him and the patient, and because it was the only way to maintain a semblance of sanity when he was exposed to gruel scenes of gaping wounds, shattered bones and people dying before his eyes, their bone chilling laments of pain and utter suffering ringing in his ears each time he went to bed, keeping him awake and restless for many nights.

During the war he had learnt what it meant to know the smell of death. 

At some nights, when he woke up with an anguished groan, cold sweat glued to his clammy skin and his heart hammering so violently, that he feared it would jump out of his throat, he still felt the nauseating stench of rotting flesh, burnt skin ripped apart by mustard gas, bertholite and blood stained dust in his mouth, making him wretch until his body was wrecked by spasms and the only thing he could sense was the acid tang of bile on his tongue.

Percival was convinced that he had left a part of his humanity behind in the trenches. Years had passed since the war; yet it still occurred that he was plagued by dreams of himself crawling through the muddy and with rats infested trenches filled with wounded soldiers, their gaunt faces and empty eyes following his movements like skeletal ghosts.

No one was left unaffected by the atrocities that had taken place in Europe during Percival’s service with the Medical Corps. However, the psychological wounds that never seemed to scar completely inside his core fueled his determination to work harder and push himself further, every little improvement he saw in a patient’s health making the itching ache in his chest less painful, pulling him out of moments of helplessness that sometimes took over his body and paralyzed him. 

He was completely invested in giving the most optimal care to his patients, to the point of forgetting his own basic needs during the very few instants he had for himself outside of work. Most fellow physicians accused him of being too selfless. Those who already had the privilege to come from a wealthy family, like himself, contented themselves with the prestige that always came with the title of being called ‘doctor’. They liked to brag about the accomplishments they had made in the medicinal research, yet purposefully omitted to give credit to the staff that worked with them and actually did most of the work.

Percival had been invited countless times at events, club meetings and so called charity balls whose purpose mainly served people from high social status to stroke each other’s egos and complain about trivial things. But, when he could, he avoided those gatherings like the plague. He didn’t need to recall his father’s stern words to be aware of the fact that his priorities laid elsewhere, rather than being part of a society that was obsessed with frivolities and things that only evolved around themselves.

He knew that his behavior was frowned upon by several folks; disdainful whispers spreading among the coffee-parties telling that he was an uptight hermit, a hopeless philanthropist whose mind had been contaminated by the issues of the proletarian class, just as his father was.

It wasn’t that Percival had a bad reputation. He was a _Graves_. A name that was notorious around the states, mostly thanks to his forefathers who were responsible for the foundations of numerous hospitals built for those who were the most in need, particularly homeless children and war veterans. Since Percival could think, it was predestined that he would follow his father’s footsteps and take over the responsibility of being the head of the Graves family and the supervisor and financial contributor of the foundations that kept giving the homeless a place where they could get medical treatment.

Percival’s nearly obsessive dedication to his work attracted gazes of admiration, respect and amazement, yet also envious glares, scorn and suspicion; all of this hidden behind a mask of hypocrisy. Like any other well-known man, Percival had enemies. Again, this simple fact was one of many features that explained his secluded lifestyle. 

It was the price to pay for being the heir of an important legacy. Not that he complained. 

He barely wasted any thoughts about finding a spouse, the idea of sharing his life with a person long thrown away and out of the question. He didn’t have the time, nor did he have the patience to search for someone to whom he could give his love and attention. The harshness of Percival’s life had left him scarred and wary, and he knew what society saw in people like him. Perhaps the wall that was dressed between him and the others had become so thick, that the notion of someone looking through a little crack in the thick barrier - finding the weaknesses and rawest emotions he tried to conceal - had become unbearable.

Percival could count the number of persons he could truly trust and consider his most cherished friends. He would’ve been reluctant to admit that, but it felt good and grounding to have someone on whom he could count. Being the mentor of an orphan boy was probably one of the best decisions he had made in his life. Percival thought that his heart had become cold and flaked over the years; but the presence of the boy had touched a sensitive part in him he had thought lost and unrecoverable, and it gave him a reason to have faith in himself, however small it was.

Percival may have become a grim and weary man, permanently affected by the cruelties he had dealt with in the past. He may be having a strict and stoic lifestyle, full of self-imposed harsh rules and selfless dedication to the well-being of his patients; but that didn’t mean that he had forgotten how to enjoy the simplest pleasures of life whenever the opportunity presented itself.

He had a soft spot for the beauty of art and nature. He wasn’t afraid to appreciate a lovely thing once it appeared before his critical eye. It could have the form of a fair looking flower sprouting in the garden behind the glass of his estate’s greenhouse, or long walks through the calmness of the forest at the countryside.

Beauty appeared sometimes in various forms at unexpected places. To Percival, fate was a mere excuse for simple-minded people to find a justification to the actions they didn’t want to admit being responsible of. Yet it sure felt like a sign when he encountered a particularly exquisite shape of beauty during one of his annual stays at the famous _hotel Aubépine_.

He didn’t comprehend his own behavior as he found himself seeking the alluring creature out like a starving man searching for water, intrigued and touched by their timid yet warming glow as they showed up before his curious gaze and attracted him with a drawing that still provoked an odd and fluttering sensation in his stomach whenever his thoughts drifted towards it.

Never someone had ever drawn a portrait that would capture the finest details of Percival’s face, revealing a vulnerability which he had always believed was carefully hidden behind an expression of stern aloofness he had perfected over the years. He should have been suspicious of the young stranger who had dared to approach him. However, he couldn’t suppress the feeling of cautious curiosity as he let his eyes wander over the slender form of the man who seemed so out of place in the luxurious environment of the hotel’s domain, yet had a sweet and uncommon aura that sparked something in Percival’s chest that left him reeling. 

Alone after arriving at the hotel’s reception hall, he had immediately spotted the shy and awkward looking young man whose somewhat shabby appearance stood out from the other usual residents present in the room. Percival knew what kind of clientèle visited the hotel, so it had been quite a surprise to see a new face among the crowd. As he followed the man outside with the intention to give him back an object he had inadvertently dropped on the floor, he was struck by the sight that greeted him as soon as the man turned around, within range of the doctor’s appraising eyes.

There was an eccentric beauty about the young man that left Percival intrigued and utterly charmed. He couldn’t help but let his gaze linger on aquamarine-blue irises that always seemed to avoid his gaze, bashfully blinking down; with long blond eyelashes stroking freckled cheeks. The man had a lovely plump lower lip that was constantly subject to nervous chewing, given how red the flesh was at some torn places. His face was framed by a fringe of reddish hair, its curly strands covering most of his forehead and tickling his downcast eyes, as though in an attempt to conceal them.

He held himself in a way that made his spine seem a little crooked, like a beginning of a slight thoracic scoliosis. Though, there was a certain grace to his movements, and Percival’s eyes were immediately drawn to slender hands that kept the man’s bag pressed to his chest. There was an elegance to them that Percival couldn’t ignore. The younger man’s phalanges were long and delicate, a shape that some people would consider ‘ladylike’, yet it was contrasted by the presence of calluses and scars that were scattered along the sun-burnt skin, proof of a life of labor.

It was unlike Percival to be easily moved, but as soon as the young man had offered him a thankful smile curling timidly around his lips - blue eyes filled with a glint of gratitude and reverent curiosity - he knew he couldn’t deny the pleased feeling that started to warm his chest.

Percival didn’t expect to see the young stranger again, his mind too wrapped up in other issues and responsibilities he had to deal with. He was surprised though when he realized that the man had been following and observing him during one of his evening strolls at the beach, all the while drawing something that later turned out to be a portrait of Percival himself.

The doctor could still remember the look of shame and mortification on the stranger’s face as he was confronted to the scene of Percival cradling the portrait in his hands, staring at it as if looking at himself for the first time. Many thoughts had swirled that day in Percival’s head. As he swallowed past the shock and bewilderment at seeing something so unexpected, he couldn’t deny that the younger man was talented and had an impressive way of capturing the tiniest emotions on someone’s face.

It later turned out that the man was an artist who wanted to try his luck at promoting his works in New York, expressly invited by the owner of the _hotel Aubépine_ himself. He told his name was _Newt Scamander_ , a strange given name, but Percival guessed it was a short form for ‘Newton’.

Before Percival could blink, he found himself enthralled by the man the more he learned about him. As they conversed about their lives one evening at the lounge, he couldn’t help but feel fascinated by the adventures the redhead had lived throughout his travels, which made Percival’s esteem for him grow all the more. There was a fire in Newt’s eyes as he talked excitedly about his paintings, once the initial shyness was gone. He had a low and melodious voice to which Percival found he could listen the whole day. The doctor quickly noticed that Newt had a habit of apologizing profusely whenever he realized he was going overboard with his ramblings, which Percival found adorable in a way.

Behind the artist’s meek and socially awkward demeanor there was a strong-willed and intrepid light that the older man couldn’t help but admire. 

Percival found it equally unusual and unsettling that he suddenly felt this ardent desire to get closer to the artist and elicit more of those gorgeous and maddening smiles on his handsome face. Seeing the artist glance at him from under his long eyelashes with expressive eyes - soft lower lip tucked between his teeth in a coy, borderline sinful manner - provoked a heat in Percival’s loins that made his skin suddenly feel too tight and his heart soar.

Percival had always been meticulously careful to not reveal any details about his past, especially when it came to complete strangers. Yet, he had the eerie feeling that the artist had seen right through his barriers, calm understanding reflecting in those gentle eyes as he tended to Percival’s wound. In usual circumstances Percival would have recoiled and coldly brushed off any offer for help. 

Though, as he felt himself relenting and growing more relaxed under Newt’s patient care, he knew that he was officially gone for the artist.

Now Percival ended up standing before the mirror in his hotel room, getting ready for the art exhibit that was about to start in a few hours.

As he scrutinized his reflection with assessing eyes, he couldn’t help but snort at the way his thoughts always seemed to flow towards the beautiful artist, catching himself wondering which attire he should wear in order to make the best impression. After having spent such a delightful day with Newt at the botanical garden, he was looking forward to meet him again, and he couldn’t suppress the sense of eagerness bubbling inside him.

“It’s the third time you change your waistcoat,” a voice complained behind him, and Percival flashed a brief look over his shoulder, remembering that he wasn’t alone in the room. His gaze caught Lionel lounging on one of the armchairs near the balcony, fiddling with a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes and looking visibly annoyed at the doctor’s stalling.

“Since you are so impatient, why don’t you go join Credence in the reception hall?” Percival shot back while adjusting his shirtsleeves with furrowed eyebrows. He didn’t need to look up to see his friend pulling a face.

“Credence hasn’t arrived yet, and what should I do down there anyway? Nope,” the chemist pulled out a cigarette and twirled it between his nimble fingers, flashing Percival a knowing look, “I rather stay here and make sure you don’t make a complete fool of yourself with all those fancy clothes. We’re all aware you want to impress someone.”

“I don’t know who you are talking about,” Percival deadpanned, knowing exactly whom Lionel was referring to. But he took great satisfaction in teasing the chemist further, which instantly had its desired effect.

“Oh, come on!”

Lionel straightened up in his chair and looked up expectantly with widened eyes while Percival pointedly stared at his own reflection, trying to fix the tie around his neck.

“I see the way you look at him, that cute British painter.”

“His name is _Newt Scamander_ , in case you’ve forgotten,” Percival muttered and let out a huff of frustration as he failed to make a convenient knot with the slippery fabric. “Today is an important event, and I want to encourage him.”

Lionel snorted.

“Yeah, sure. But admit that his quirky charm doesn’t leave you unaffected. It’s been an eternity since I’ve seen you this interested in someone before.” The pharmacist leaned back against the chair, his arms dangling lazily over the armrests. “Anyway, I want to know what you’re really up to. Are you going to take things further with him or not?”

Percival sighed internally, wondering why he had told Lionel the whole events that had resulted in him meeting the young artist. The chemist was his most trusted friend, and they had always shared each other’s struggles and joys. But Lionel could be very chaotic at times and his infuriating curiosity showed no limits. 

His words still made Percival ponder though, and he asked himself if he was ready to consider courting Newt properly. During their last encounters Percival had tried to be subtle and careful about his advances, not wanting to make the artist uncomfortable. But Newt had been very receptive to his compliments, which intensified Percival’s ardor all the more. 

The doctor had always been a considerate person, especially when it came to aiding people in need; but he had at all times kept a certain emotional distance. Newt though had struck something primal in him that made him want to cherish the artist and smother him with attention. He didn’t remember being this passionate about a person’s wellbeing, and it was equally thrilling and alarming.

At least Percival was sure of the fact that he wanted to make things right with Newt. He had to admit that an insecure part of him was afraid of staining the artist’s glow with his soiled and dark self. He was plagued by far too many demons and the prospect of letting someone into his life nearly made him reel back. Though, when saw the way Newt seemed to look at him with this gentle yet vivid gleam in his eyes, it made Percival think that maybe he wasn’t that much of a hopeless case.

“What I’m going to do is none of your concern, Lionel,” Percival finally answered after a brief pause, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips when he heard a huff in reply. “Now instead of sitting there, help me with this goddamn tie.”

Lionel looked as if he was going to object, but then he sighed a resigned “Yes, sir.” and made his way towards the doctor, making a sign for him to turn around so he could take a look at the sloppily made tie that lay askew on Percival’s chest.

The chemist’s critical gaze softened as his eyes flicked briefly up to meet Percival’s, and he tugged playfully at the wrinkled fabric.

“You’ve become a man who knows how to use a scalpel, yet you still suck at making a basic tie,” he mocked fondly and Percival chuckled.

“There has to be a domain where I can’t be perfect.”

“Of course.”

They exchanged amused looks, a silent sharing of memories of their younger years. Percival remembered having always trouble tying a tie and his father had tried to teach him how to do it, but to no avail. It wasn’t until Lionel came around that he finally succeeded in doing this simple task which had been for so long source of pure annoyance. He didn’t need help anymore, though there were still instants where Lionel would tie the tie for him, and before they noticed, it had become a sort of tradition since then. 

They had come to the conclusion that they both liked it, and it was a way for them to share a moment of proximity, reminding them that they still had each others’ backs no matter what would happen to them. The struggles they had both been going through had reinforced the link of their friendship, the rudeness an unpredictability of life making them appreciate the simplest moments of respite.

As Percival observed the practiced and quick work of Lionel’s fingers, he suddenly had a sensation of déjà-vu. It took only a second for him to remember the freckled and slender hands of the handsome artist removing Percival’s bowtie, slowly but sure and nimble.

He recalled the close proximity they had shared, something that Percival usually avoided when he could, only letting people he trusted come into his personal space. With Newt it had all felt so different. Grounding. Comforting.

It was out of Percival’s comprehension why he had permitted the artist to see his vulnerability. Alone that incident at the lounge had been proof enough of how broken and messed up Percival was still inside. There was something though to the way Newt treated him and looked at him with those calm, deep blue depths - without judgment, nor pity - that soothed the physician as if enchanted by some dizzying spell.

Percival was pulled out of his musings when Lionel patted his chest and said with a confident grin, “There, all done.”

Percival looked down at his impeccably made tie lying snugly against his chest, and returned Lionel’s smile, nodding his thanks.

“Thank you. I appreciate that.”

“You better,” the chemist replied with his trademark crooked smile, which slowly faded as his expression turned serious, piercing blue eyes dancing over Percival’s form as though searching for another thing to fix, until they met the doctor’s questioning gaze.

His voice was soft, tentative as he spoke.

“How are you feeling, Val?”

Percival felt a heavy weight settling at the pit of his stomach, a lump forming inside his throat. He suddenly found himself unable to maintain eye-contact, the look of concern in those knowing eyes becoming unbearable. 

Yet, he forced a tight smile as he patted Lionel’s shoulder.

“I manage, Nel. I manage.”

Lionel had a doubtful look on his face, but blessedly, he didn’t press further and instead gave a sad smile.

“You know you can always talk to me. Even if it’s hard for you.”

Percival felt a pang of guilt in his chest at seeing his friend so affected by his state. It wasn’t his intention to make Lionel think that his support was unwanted. But at this moment, he didn’t have the energy to wallow in pain and dwell on people who wanted to see him suffer.

Now all he wanted was to enjoy the present moment and see a certain lovely painter again.

Before he could say anything else, someone knocked on the door and both men turned their heads at the sound.

“Yes?” Percival called and the door opened one gap, the sound of chattering people filtering into the room. 

It was Credence who peeked inside and offered Percival a timid smile.

“Good evening, Mister Graves. I hope I’m not late.” His hazel eyes blinked furtively at Lionel. “Mister Parker.”

Percival smiled and beckoned Credence to come in.

“You came just on time, Credence. Let me just put my suit jacket on, and we’re ready to go.”

“Credence, my boy!” Lionel beamed and slung one arm over Credence’s shoulder, pulling him down, since Credence was one head taller than him, and ruffled his wavy hair. “It’s been a while! How are your studies going?”

Credence only managed to make a helpless squeak as he was further squashed by the force of Lionel’s hug, his eyes sending Percival a silent plea for help. The doctor shook his head in amusement as he watched the scene, until he finally took pity on him and pulled at Lionel’s shoulder.

“Come on now, leave the boy alone,” he said, and Lionel released his grip but still kept one arm around Credence’s shoulder, peeking up at him with a look of wonder in his eyes.

“My, my, Credence. Is it me, or are you getting taller each time we don’t see each other?”

Credence’s cheeks turned adorably bright pink, and before he could mumble a response, Percival clucked his tongue.

“It’s definitely you who is shrinking, Lionel,” he retaliated and Lionel gave an indignant huff while Credence broke into a grin and tried to hide it behind his hand.

“You, watch your mouth, old man.”

“How is your apothecary rolling, Mister Parker?” Credence asked, a little breathless from the hug, making Lionel turn his attention back to him.

“Oh, everythin’s fine. Same old business. You should come around visit me sometime,” the chemist replied with a smile and pulled out the pack of cigarettes from his side-pocket, showing it to Credence. “It’s just that now, more and more industries are putting pressure on me and want me to sell their products, trying to make more profits. See these cigarettes for example. It is said that they are good for people with asthma and throat irritations. I call it bullshit.”

“They still won’t leave you alone, won’t they?” Percival noted and Lionel shrugged with a wry twitch to his mouth, the dark circles under his heavy-lidded eyes suddenly looking more salient.

“You know how it is. I also have to keep sustaining the apothecary. But I’ll still refuse their request though, until I have no other choice.”

Percival nodded in understanding, knowing fully well how independent apothecaries could be subject to great pressure. Nowadays, more pharmacists ordered manufactured medications because it was far more profitable than preparing time-consuming prescriptions by hand and ordering every chemical component for a certain preparation. Though, there were still a few pharmacies that prided themselves on having their own method, dosing and quality concerning their drug preparations. Yet they had to deal with financial problems, and Lionel’s pharmacy wasn’t an exception. 

“Anyway, are you still studying assiduously? You don’t want to give Papa Graves more grey hair, won’t you?” Lionel teased as he ruffled Credence’s hair again, laughing, although Percival had learnt to detect the slight waver in the chemist’s voice whenever something upset him. For now, the doctor let it slide, but he would soon find a time to confront Lionel about the issue and see how he could help him out.

“Of course I am,” Credence said with wide eyes and flushed cheeks, as if the chemist had just told an insult. “I just finished my first internship at the hospital, and now I’m writing my report. I still have difficulties with statistics though... But Mister Graves helps me a lot!”

Credence flashed at Percival a bright grin, his eyes shining, and the older man felt a sense of pride surging through him as he answered with an affirmative nod. Credence was a hardworking student. He would definitely make a fine physician, of that he was sure.

“That’s sweet. Keep it up, my boy,” Lionel praised and turned around to face Percival with raised eyebrows, clapping his hands. “So, shall we go now or are you still going to take an hour to find your suit jacket?”

Percival fought the urge to roll his eyes and proceeded to grab his navy blue suit jacket from the nearby chair. While he adjusted the fabric on his sleeves, Credence walked up to him and brushed with a few sweeps the few wrinkles on his shoulders away. Percival smiled in appreciation and gave a curt nod.

“Thank you, Credence.”

Credence ducked his head, hiding the bashful smile behind his curls; then he turned around and joined an impatient looking Lionel at the door.

Percival threw one last critical look at his reflection, before he took his cane and followed his companions into the dimly lit corridor, his nerves already thrumming with anticipation at the prospect of meeting the artist again.

\---

The exhibition hall was truly a sight to behold.

It was an immense room that seemed to be as big as a football court, the smooth wooden surface of the floor reflecting the glimmering light of giant crystal chandeliers hanging heavily from the ornate ceiling. The whole place screamed ‘money’ and Percival believed he heard the soft music of a classical orchestra flowing airily above their heads. M. Binet sure didn’t mess around when it came to organizing an event.

A few groups of guests were already gathered before the numerous paintings hanging next to each other on the walls, ready to be admired. Everyone was on their best attire, women adorning sparkling gowns that reflected the chandeliers’ dim lights, and men wearing either suits or crisp tuxedos. Percival recognized M. Binet in the crowd who approached each guest with a vigorous handshake, his strong bass voice booming across the hall.

The event seemed ready to begin, yet the doctor saw no sign of Newt.

“Not seen your lil’ Brit yet?” Lionel teased and Percival stifled a groan of exasperation.

“Stop it,” he muttered, though he kept scanning the hall with searching eyes. 

Since it seemed evident that the artist would take some time to show up, Percival decided to approach the paintings and he let his appraising gaze travel along one canvas hanging in front of him.

He made a thoughtful hum as he took in each little pattern and detail, imagining the agile flick of the artist’s wrist as he worked on the painting, every brushstroke telling a hidden story. 

It was a simple image: a scene of a woman holding a newborn child in her arms, her calm and content face illuminated by the dim sunlight of dawn shining through a cracked window. Her clothes were shabby and stained, her hands covered in bruises, showing the struggles she has lived. Yet she looked serene as though no one could do her and her child any harm. Percival couldn’t help but admire the way Newt had given attention to the tiniest details. The folds of the woman’s clothes, the roughness of her bruised knuckles, the subtle yet present glow of happiness in her downcast eyes… 

There was something about the painting that brought up an emotion in Percival’s chest that he couldn’t describe.

“It’s incredible,” he murmured, not seeing Credence and Lionel nodding their heads affirmatively.

“He sure has a gift,” Lionel breathed, his huge eyes trailing over the painting.

Percival was about to move towards the next canvas when he heard someone calling Newt’s name among the crowd, and he whipped his head around to see a woman crossing the hall with an anxious expression on her pale face.

She wore a pair of black palazzo pants that fluttered around her legs each time she moved to make a sharp turn and walk with hurried steps around the room. Wavy strands of her dark hair lay disheveled against her forehead as she looked with frantic eyes left and right. She clearly seemed on edge, and as she called the artist’s name again, Percival knew something was wrong.

“Wait here, I’ll be right back,” he told over his shoulder, not waiting for Lionel and Credence to respond, and made his way towards the young woman who stood by the hall’s exit by now, with crossed arms and a look of worry darkening her delicate features.

As Percival came to a halt behind her, he cleared his throat and the woman turned around sharply, her alarmed expression letting place to a look of badly concealed suspicion when her gaze landed on him.

She raised an inquisitive eyebrow as she said, “Yes?”

Sensing the nervous energy emanating from her, Percival took one step back and gave a conciliatory smile, tilting his head at her in greeting.

“Pardon me, Ma’am. I’m sorry if I might sound nosy, but I’ve heard you calling for Mister Scamander, our host for this art exhibit. May I know if he’s alright?” Percival extended one hand towards the woman who looked at him with narrowed eyes. “I’m Percival Graves. I’m a… friend of him.”

The young woman stared at him for a few agonizing seconds, until suddenly her eyes widened and her expression changed into something unreadable, her gaze trailing over his face as if trying to memorize his features. 

Percival was about to withdraw his hand, feeling slightly bewildered by her shameless staring, when all of a sudden the woman took his hand and shook it, her stiff features losing their tension although she still looked a tad suspicious.

“I was hoping to make your acquaintance in other circumstances than this one, but it’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mister Graves,” the woman said with a nervous smile, and as she saw Percival furrowing his eyebrows in confusion, she added hastily, “Newt has told me that he was seeing you quite often. He says many things about you.”

“Only good things, I hope,” Percival joked and the young woman huffed out a breathless laugh, looking sheepishly to the side. 

“Oh, he sure gushes a lot,” she said, and Percival felt a fluttering warmth in his chest as he processed her words. 

It faded quickly though when the lady’s expression turned serious again and her nervous fidgeting returned in full force.

As Percival saw her eyes searching the room for the umpteenth time, he asked cautiously, “Is something wrong with Mister Scamander?”

The woman looked at him as if internally debating if she could trust him, but then she let out a sigh, her shoulders slumping in resignation.

“I was just arriving with my sister and her husband to pick Newt up at his room… Everything was going fine, until he suddenly excused himself with the pretence that he needed some fresh air.”

She bit on her lower lip and sighed again, nervously brushing a strand from her sweaty forehead.

“It’s been now more than half an hour that he has absented himself, and he still hasn’t showed up yet. The vernissage will start at any moment and I can’t find him.”

Percival grew even more concerned when he saw her face turn ashen as she swallowed what seemed to be a lump in her throat, and she hesitated a brief second before adding, “Sometimes he gets reckless when he is under great stress. I’m scared that he has gotten into trouble again…”

Percival hummed as he let her words sink in, his apprehension only getting greater the more he thought about the prospect of something happening to Newt. He felt sympathy for the woman who clearly seemed to be a good friend of the painter.

“I think I’ve got my idea of where Mister Scamander might be,” the doctor said after a moment of reflection, and the lady’s stricken expression lit up a fraction as she looked at him with cautious hope reflecting in her expressive eyes.

“If you allow me to aid you, I’d gladly go search for him, Miss--”

He paused mid-sentence and the lady chuckled, sending him an apologetic look. 

“Goldstein. Tina Goldstein.”

Percival smiled at her and inclined his head. “Miss Goldstein. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Miss Goldstein smiled, the worry lines slowly dissipating from her forehead as she said, “Thank you, Mister Graves. I appreciate that. I was starting to get desperate here.”

Percival shook his head.

“Don’t be. We’ll find him. Trust me on that.”

\---

As predicted, Percival found the artist sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest in a cowering position on one of the empty deckchairs at the beach, his unkempt and curly hair whipping in the strong sea wind. Percival thought he saw a shiver wracking the painter’s lean body, a pained sob brought by the wind to Percival’s ears, making his heart clench with worry.

Slowly, he made his way towards the artist until he came to a halt next to Newt’s deckchair, looking down at the curly head that was hidden in the circle of trembling arms. As if sensing that he was watched, Newt looked up and jumped at the sight of the physician, his red-rimmed eyes widening in shock.

“M--Mister Graves…”

The artist ducked his head as he tried to rub the apparent tear stains from his flushed cheeks, his hunched back bending even more in a fruitless attempt to hide himself from the doctor’s searching gaze. Percival’s heart made a painful stutter at the sight, and he felt the sudden primal urge to pull Newt into his arms and gently shush him while brushing back the reddish locks from his fluttering eyelids. However, he knew that it would be inappropriate, and this wasn’t the right way of approaching someone who was in a skittish state.

Making sure to not make any brusque movements, Percival took one careful step forward, then slowly lowered himself on the deckchair, mindful of his bad leg. As he set his cane on the ground, he slid a few centimeters away from the shivering artist, giving him a little space, and then let his gaze wander along the moonlit shore.

They both sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity, watching the rhythmic back-and-forth of the waves over the dark sand.

Although Percival was looking away, he felt Newt’s eyes linger on him from time to time, a mix of barely concealed longing and uncertainty reflecting in their deep blue depths. Taking it as a cue to make his move, Percival slid his hand towards the artist and drew his palm up in silent invitation, waiting patiently for the younger man to approach.

It didn’t last long until he felt Newt’s shaking hand slip into his palm, and Percival let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding the whole time. With a thrumming heart, he closed his fingers around the artist’s hand and gave it a light squeeze, his thumb rubbing soothingly across the rough skin.

Newt shivered again, probably from the touch, and he hesitantly slid closer towards the doctor until they were sitting flush next to each other, one taking comfort in the body heat of the other. This time Percival couldn’t help but bring Newt’s hand up to his lips and plant a soft peck on its knuckles, taking advantage of the moment to breathe in the soft scent of the freckled skin.

He heard Newt’s breath hitch, and a blazing heat warmed his core when the artist slotted himself further against Percival’s side and let out a stuttering sigh. 

Percival was hyper-aware of their close proximity, feeling the warmth of Newt’s body seeping through the multiple layers of fabric into his skin. He could sense the strands of the painter’s hair tickling his neck and the uneven rise and fall of Newt’s ribcage as he tried to calm his breathing. It should have perturbed him to be so close to someone, yet he found himself seeking the artist’s warmth and he resisted the urge to bury his nose in those gorgeous locks. Instead, he gave Newt’s hand another squeeze of reassurance and gave him a moment to compose himself.

Percival was just about to close his eyes, listening intently to Newt’s breathing pattern, when the artist stirred and let out a weak humorless huff, his voice a little strained and trembling on the edge as he said, “I’m pathetic, ain’t I?”

The doctor arched his brows, looking down at Newt’s lowered head.

“What makes you think like that?” he murmured, letting his thumb resume its caress on the artist’s skin.

Newt shrugged.

“I-- I don’t know… It’s just…” He swallowed down a sob, his body starting to shake as he tried to contain his flaring emotions. “Everything was fine a moment ago… But-- when I arrived at the exposition hall and I saw all those people, the crowd… I just--”

Newt’s breathing became more ragged and his body was shaking like a leaf by now.

“I can’t even behave myself conveniently in front of a person, yet alone maintain a conversation. How in the hell can I-- can I--”

The artist made a choked sound and Percival rubbed a hand on his back, shushing him softly.

“Shhhh, it’s alright. Listen to me, Newt. Newt… Look at me.”

Newt gave a pained sob, his body wracked by shivers, but after another calm prompting, he finally lifted his head and locked his unsteady gaze with Percival’s, his red-rimmed eyes filled with unshed tears, ready to spill out.

Percival knitted his eyebrows, his heart constricted in pain at seeing the artist so distressed. Gingerly, he lifted Newt’s hand to his own chest and pressed it there.

His voice was barely above a whisper as he praised, “Good… Now, follow my breathing. Listen…”

Newt looked at him with panicked confusion, his breath still coming out in wheezing puffs, but he followed what he was told and imitated Percival’s slow and rhythmic breath pattern. 

“Breathe,” Percival repeated, watching Newt making a few fruitless attempts at calming his breathing, his body still invaded by hiccupping sobs. But after more calming encouragements, he managed to emulate the rise and fall of Percival’s thorax, and slowly yet gradually, the wheezing sound in his breath disappeared and his shivering calmed down.

They stayed like that for another few minutes, Percival giving low hums of reassurance while watching the artist calm down, his breathing evening out in soft puffs.

“That’s it.”

Percival gave a mild smile, his gaze growing soft when Newt blinked the tears in his eyes away and looked at their linked hands, a whimper slipping past his chapped lips.

The doctor lifted his free hand and trailed a tentative finger along Newt’s jaw, prompting the artist to meet his gaze again. As Newt looked up at him, a flush spread across his freckled cheekbones and he let out a tiny sheepish chuckle when Percival’s finger brushed the ticklish underside of his chin.

“How are you feeling?” Percival asked, his chest warming at the sight of the artist’s smile.

Newt ducked his head and let out a shuddering breath, his shoulders slumping in exhaustion.

“I’m… feeling better. Thank you…” Newt’s hand lying on Percival’s chest - still enclosed in a warm embrace - twitched. “I’m sorry you had to see me like this… You must think I’m ridiculous.”

Percival shook his head although he knew Newt didn’t see it, and trailed his fingers soothingly along the artist’s knuckles.

“Don’t apologize. And no, I don’t think you’re ridiculous. It happens that there are moments where we feel overwhelmed and distraught. Some situations can be triggering… and it makes one feel worthless.”

Newt nodded his head and looked up to lock his eyes with Percival’s, his blue depths gleaming softly in the moonlight. There was something in his eyes that Percival couldn’t quite decipher, yet he had again that dizzying feeling that they were looking right into his soul, knowing the inner suffering he tried so hardly to hide.

“I don’t know if I can face the event today,” Newt whispered in self-deprecation after a brief pause, pulling Percival out of his thoughts.

“ _I_ know you can,” Percival breathed, giving Newt’s hand another squeeze. “Just let your body rest for another few minutes, and you’ll see. I’ll be there with you.”

Seeing Newt’s unsure expression, the older man let his gaze wander along the artist’s body before it settled again on his face. He gave a reassuring smile.

“You are stronger than you think.”

Newt huffed in reply, but a slight grin tugged at his lips and he shyly looked away.

“Mister Graves…”

“ _Percival_ ,” the doctor corrected in fond reprimand and smiled at the artist’s blush, feeling his heart swell at the lovely sight. “Come with me and it’s going to be alright. Do you trust me?”

Newt’s eyes looked as if they would fill with tears again, but the artist rubbed at them and gave a trembling laugh, nodding his head as he put his other hand on Percival’s sturdy chest, his fingers brushing timidly over the suit’s fabric.

“Yes,” he whispered, “I trust you.”

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I found a little pic of the south-east view of Cairo. The years I've spent living in Egypt when I was a teen have inspired me while writing this chapter. :D
> 
>  
> 
>    
> I hope that Percy's POV was okay. It was much more difficult to write him than Newt. I had to edit and re-write his part many times because I wasn't really satisfied with the way I've written him, and I didn't want to reveal too much of what has happened in his past. Though, it is a great challenge, and I enjoyed it very much! Let me know what you think of it. I think it's alright if I alternate between Newt's and Percival's POV. Thank you so much for reading! <3
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://sassy-percy-graves.tumblr.com/)!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much for 'updating more regularly'. :'D
> 
> I'm sorry, this chapter took me really long to write. I wasn't very satisfied with it and had to edit and rewrite certain parts countless times, I have the impression my english has worsened. My horribly long work schedule keeps getting in the way too, which makes writing much more difficult for me. But I'm glad I could finally manage it and I won't forget your awesome comments you guys sent me. I reread them many times and it really motivates me a lot. Thank you so much! Thank you for your patience and for putting up with my unrielable updating pace. 
> 
> This chapter has become ridiculously long, I hope it doesn't bother so much. Next chapter will be shorter. I hope you enjoy this one, and to those who are still sticking with me: thank you <3

Newt walked back into the empty hotel lobby with Percival in tow, a dizziness still making him feel weak in the knees.

His fingers kept quivering at certain moments from the aftershocks of his previous breakdown, and he couldn’t help the occasional hiccup that would escape his lips despite having more or less regained his composure after spending God knows how many minutes sitting at Percival’s side, sobbing and clutching at the pristine fabric of the doctor’s suit.

The artist felt weirdly detached from his own body, his eyes blinking blankly at the carpeted floor as he crossed the hall. It was as though a thick fog had dampened his senses, making his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. His legs started to wobble of their own accord and before Newt could prevent his knees from giving out, a strong arm suddenly curled around his waist and pulled him against the firm length of Mr. Graves’ body.

The sudden closeness and secure weight of Percival’s hand on his hip immediately cleared the momentary daze in Newt’s mind, and a familiar heat spread through his core as he blinked up through his fringe to meet the doctor’s worried gaze. Seeing Percival’s brows crease in concern and his dark orbs look at him with calm attention made Newt blush and turn his head to the side in shame while desperately trying to suppress the shudder that trailed down his spine as he released another stuttering breath.

For the umpteenth time, Newt wondered how in the world he had ended up in this embarrassing situation. 

Not even an hour ago he had been busy getting ready for the exhibit, feeling nervous and giddy yet still confident about it, with a timid sense of excitement that turned his nerves alight. Tina’s presence was a strong pillar in his jumbled state of mind, and the fact that Queenie and Jacob were going to join him emboldened his growing resolve to make the best of this nightly event. 

However, the moment he had crossed the threshold of the exhibition hall, everything went downhill. 

As he was greeted with the view of a flock of guests gathering in front of his paintings, a sudden spark of dread flared up inside his chest, the volume of the carefree chatter around him seeming to increase tenfold, making his ears ring and his skin crawl. 

He had been fully aware of what was awaiting him. It was expected that many residents of the hotel and other guests were going to attend the exhibit, all thanks to M. Binet who had the intention to make Newt notable by introducing him to people of influence. Regardless of the time Newt was given to mentally prepare himself, it still felt intimidating and unsettling to be actually faced with such a big crowd; to critical and assessing eyes that were only waiting for an occasion to scrutinize and pick his paintings apart like vultures. 

Newt felt exposed like a bug planted by unforgiving pins on a display rack, invisible claws winding around his throat and choking him, making it impossible for him to form any coherent thought. 

It wasn’t until Tina tapped lightly on his shoulder and asked with a tinge of worry in her tone if he was alright, that the artist managed to force a semblance of a reassuring smile and mumble a quick excuse, not daring to look his friend in the eye as he turned around and stumbled out of the hall. Once he was outside, it was as though a dam had been breached, tears trailing down his cheeks without warning and wheezing breaths coming out in irregular puffs of his trembling mouth, his lungs aching as if they were on fire.

The farther he got from the hotel, the more he felt miserable, a mix of shame, bitterness and guilt mingling with his panicked thoughts as he staggered down the walkway that led towards the beach. 

Without thinking twice, Newt had immediately sought out the deckchair on which he had spent so many days drawing and observing the passersby. He didn’t know how much time had gone by as he sat on the cold wooden surface, staring with glassy eyes at the waves gliding along the moonlit shore. A voice in his head had screamed at him, imploring him to man the hell up and go back; but his body remained as still as a statue, unable to move as the nagging disappointment he felt towards himself ate away the last little bribe of resolve left inside of him.

The artist didn’t dare to imagine how his friends and M. Binet would react once they realized that he had fled his own event like a coward. Alone that thought made him loathe himself even more, angry tears staining his flushed cheeks as he once again dug his fingernails inside his palms, not caring about the sharp pain that seared through his nerves as burning moon-shaped cuts started to form on sensitive skin which had barely healed from previous abuse. 

Until now, Newt felt their tingling sting as he absentmindedly trailed his thumb along the inflamed areas. He didn’t notice Mr. Graves’ eyes following his every move, a deep frown darkening the man’s stern features as he took in the state of Newt’s sore hands.

The redhead flinched as one of Mr. Graves’ hands enclosed his stiff fingers and gently uncurled them, revealing more of the red indentations that covered his palms. Newt felt unable to look up to meet those cunning eyes as he leaned further against Mr. Graves’ flank and let himself turn pliant under the doctor’s dexterous examination.

Newt braced himself for the chiding, the memories of past similar events flooding his mind, making him immediately tense up again and chew on his lip, already mentally preparing the practiced answers he had parroted so many times before. 

He blinked in confusion when Mr. Graves slowly released his hold on his fingers and remained silent. He resumed settling a gentle hand on Newt’s shivering back and gave a little press with his thumb in a sign of reassurance, seemingly noticing the sudden tension in the artist’s body. 

A little bewildered by the gesture, Newt lifted his head and looked at the older man with knitted brows. Instead of scorn, there was softness to Percival’s expression, also something else that gave Newt the fluttering feeling that the man _knew_ , although the redhead had never mentioned to anyone the reason why and since when he had those bruises on his palms, always passing them for mere work or travel related accidents, which was also true most of the time-- but nobody needed to know the difference between the one or the other scar. He didn’t need to be looked at with pity or disgust, nor did he need a reminder that this coping mechanism was more damaging than doing any good.

Yet again, Newt was surprised by the silent understanding reflecting in Mr. Graves’ eyes, which only made him ponder all the more. 

It seemed evident to him by now that Mr. Graves had gone through many hurdles throughout his life, despite the fact that he hadn’t revealed anything about himself. There were nonetheless tiny traits in the man’s behavior that may have gone unnoticed yet still weren’t missed by Newt’s keen senses. The way Mr. Graves had approached him at the beach led him to believe that he wasn’t a stranger to this kind of situation, which only added another layer to the numerous hidden facets of the doctor’s history.

Newt still felt a bit shaken by being discovered by Mr. Graves at his worst moment, though it had never felt so grounding to be held and comforted by someone who didn’t judge him for what he was going through. Alone the fact that Mr. Graves had remained at his side in the first place produced a fluttering warmth in his chest which only seemed to grow each time he laid eyes on the handsome man.

Newt was brought back to the present when Mr. Graves guided him towards one of the armchairs near the reception counter and gently pushed on his shoulder, urging him to sit on the cushioned seat. Newt gave a confused look, but followed the man’s lead and reclined against the backrest, only then realizing how exhausted he had become alone from the short walk to the hotel lobby.

He offered the doctor a sheepish smile, barely looking him in the eye as he mumbled, “Thank you, Mr. Gra-- ah, Percival…”

Newt blushed, still not quite used to saying the man’s given name out loud. Referring to the doctor in that manner felt dizzyingly intimate, and it left the artist giddy in an oddly pleasant way.

Mr. Graves answered with an appraising hum and proceeded to stand next to Newt’s seat, leaning a part of his weight on his ebony cane.

“I considered that it would be wiser if we wait for another while before we head back. You need to recuperate,” he said in a calm yet firm tone and his gaze turned warm when Newt looked up at him. “Besides, we still have a few minutes left before your introduction.”

At the mention of him being introduced at the exhibit made Newt’s stomach spasm painfully, but he quickly stomped the nauseating feeling away before it could take control over him once again, and he looked down at his entwined fingers on his lap, swallowing hard.

“I-- I think I should still return now,” Newt slowly replied and pressed his hands between his lanky legs in order to prevent them from shaking. “My friends are waiting for me. They surely must be worried since I’ve absented myself for at least an hour.”

Newt’s reddened cheeks grew a shade darker as he added in a subdued tone, “I left the exhibition hall in quite a hurry without telling them where I went. I didn’t want them to think that I was getting cold feet…”

 _I didn’t want them to see me weak… to feel disappointed…_ he wanted to add, but he pressed his lips together and ducked his head, hiding his pained expression behind his fringe. A breathy sigh left his lips when Percival’s hand settled anew on his shoulder, and he found himself leaning into the touch, drawing strength from this comforting anchor like a lost, touch-starved man.

“I’m sure your friends understand that it ain’t easy for you,” Percival reasoned softly. “It’s your first art exhibit. The pressure must’ve been high for you during the past days.”

Before Newt’s mind could form a halfhearted reply, the doctor suddenly let out a low chuckle and leaned one elbow against the top of the armchair, his dark eyes taking on a golden gleam as they reflected the flickering light of the chandeliers. 

“I… actually met one of your friends at the exhibition hall just moments ago.”

Newt’s eyes widened in disbelief at Mr. Graves’ uttered words, and he didn’t know if he should feel mortified or not, given the circumstances in which he had left the hall, realizing only then that Percival surely hadn’t missed Tina, Queenie and Jacob rushing about the place with worry written plain on their faces.

“You-- you met-” Newt stammered lamely, and Percival nodded with a little quirk pulling at his lips.

“Miss Tina Goldstein. She was calling for you when I arrived. I immediately thought that something was amiss, that’s why I went to talk to her. But rest assured,” Percival trailed his hand down to Newt’s back between his shoulder blades and let his thumb draw soothing circles along a stiff muscle when the artist’s face turned pale, “I told her that I’d be with you. I think the fact of not knowing where you were is what made her concerned.”

“Oh, my…”

Newt didn’t know if it was possible to be even more ashamed than he already felt, and his heart constricted at the thought of Tina driving herself sick with worry. He had to go back to her quickly, although he still felt like he might pass out at any moment.

As if on cue, the sudden sound of hasty footsteps approached the lobby and Tina appeared at the entrance, her eyes darting franticly around the room and her luscious hair whipping out of their wavy shape as she turned her head left and right.

When she spotted Newt, her face lit up in relief and a loud sigh left her mouth as she made her way towards him. Newt barely had the time to stand up and walk up to her when he was tackled by Tina’s crushing embrace, her face pressed against his neck as she hugged him so tightly, it nearly made him wheeze.

“Oh Newt, where have you been?” Tina exclaimed and stepped back to look up at him without releasing her grip on his shoulders. “You disappeared for so long, I thought something happened to you. How are you feeling?”

Unable to look her in the eye, Newt ducked his head and instead awkwardly returned her hug, acutely aware of Percival observing them.

“I’m sorry, Tina. I really didn’t mean to make you fret,” he mumbled into her hair and drew in a rattling breath as Tina hugged him more tightly. “I-- I just felt a bit stressed out… I didn’t want to alarm you, so I--”

Newt trailed off when he felt the brunette nodding her head against the crook of his neck, a silent sign that he didn’t need to go further. 

“It’s alright, Newt,” she whispered in a soft tone that only he could hear and gave his shoulders another squeeze. “Please… just remember you don’t need to hide from me when things aren’t going well. I’m here for you no matter what.”

At those words, Newt could only nod and lean into the comforting circle of her arms while trying to restrain himself from crying anew. The regret he felt for daring to think that Tina would judge him for what had happened didn’t completely fade away, but he was still soothed by her words and right at this moment he couldn’t be more grateful to have her by his side.

Before he could get lulled by the gentle rub of Tina’s hands on his back, the brunette loosened her embrace and turned her head towards Percival who had distanced himself by standing further away from them, seemingly with the intention to give them their space. Feeling self-conscious, Newt cleared his throat and sent Tina an apologetic look.

“I was hoping to introduce you to Mister Graves under better conditions, but I guess I missed my chance,” he said half-jokingly, to which Tina answered with a chuckle and an evasive gesture of her hand.

“Not a big deal, Newt. I’m glad I that can finally see your charming mystery man with my own two eyes.”

Newt could barely get flustered by his friend’s teasing words when said mystery man approached them and greeted Tina with a nod of his head, a faint smile splaying on his lips.

“How are you doing, Miss Goldstein?”

Tina smiled brightly in return and brushed in a sheepish manner a loose strand of her hair back behind her ear.

“Oh, very relieved. Thank you, Mister Graves.”

“My sincere apologies for keeping you waiting. A little moment of respite was necessary given the circumstances,” Percival said while letting his deep gaze linger on Newt who couldn’t repress the flutter in his chest as their eyes met.

“I fully understand. Me too I must admit that the whole gathering here is quite overwhelming,” Tina agreed. “Many people have come to admire Newt’s paintings.”

Percival replied with an affirmative hum as he absentmindedly trailed his fingers along the handle of his cane.

“Well, it would be foolish to say that it doesn’t take time to get used to being the main protagonist of such a great event, but I’m convinced that the exhibit will be a success.” 

He turned to look at Newt with a flicker in his eyes that made the artist’s already heated skin blush harder, and he was sure his heart skipped a beat as the physician added, “I’ve already had the occasion to contemplate one of Newt’s exquisite works, and all I can say is that words can’t describe how enthralled I am by such a display of fine skill.”

Newt doubted that he could handle so much praise, his eyes darting to the floor as he felt his heart rate quicken and a tickling sensation infusing his belly with pleasant warmth.

He could hear the proud smile in Tina’s voice as she remarked, “How eloquent, Mister Graves.”

“I’m very sincere, by all means,” the doctor replied with a mild chuckle, making Tina huff out a laugh as he pressed a hand against his chest in a theatrical manner, as though affronted by Tina’s playful jab.

As Newt silently observed their interaction, he was pleased to observe that Tina seemed to warm up very quickly to Percival’s presence; and it intensified the surge of affection and trust he felt towards the doctor, given the fact that Tina was usually suspicious when encountering other men. There was a calm, charismatic and caring aura about Percival, and seeing the keen spirited brunette act so carefree around him only confirmed the shy yet growing feelings Newt harbored for him.

The artist came out of his reverie when Tina’s hand circled his arm and gently tugged at him.

“Should we return now, Newt?” Tina asked, a sense of hesitance lacing her tone. “We can still wait for a while if you want.”

Newt shook his head and laid his hand on hers in appeasement. He was touched by her concern, but he knew he had to face his fears sooner or later, and hiding behind his friend’s shield wasn’t going to arrange anything.

“I’m feeling much better actually,” Newt said and smiled upon seeing the mild surprise in Tina’s eyes. “I can’t run away forever. Yes… I’m still apprehensive to be honest, but I think I can manage.”

The brunette looked at him silently for another few seconds, but then she nodded and hugged him once more before releasing her hold, a grin illuminating her face.

“Alright, then let’s go. Queenie and Jacob are waiting for us. We should hurry.”

Newt casted a glance towards Percival, a moment of hesitation making him chew on his lip, and as the doctor saw the unasked question in the artist’s gaze, he gave an encouraging smile and tilted his head at the exit.

“Don’t wait for me. I’ll join you in a minute. I--” a somewhat embarrassed chuckle left Percival’s mouth as he gestured towards his knee. “I need to sit and stretch my leg for a bit. It’s been quite a long day.”

“Oh…”

Tina drew in a breath as she looked at the cane in Percival’s hand.

“I haven’t noticed-- is it bad?” she asked tentatively, to which Mr. Graves shook his head in negative, yet Newt was sure he saw the strain that was perceptible behind the man’s collected exterior. 

Newt felt his heart clench, an instinctive need to give comfort and slot himself against the older man in hope to alleviate the pain making his fingers curl on nothing; but before the artist could make a step towards him, Percival said, “Nothing to worry about. It just feels clamped from time to time.”

“Percival--” Newt breathed, his voice trailing off as Percival pressed a finger to his own lips, his mouth curling up into a mild reassuring smile, making the crowfeet at the corners of his eyes more apparent.

“It’s fine, Newt. You better concentrate yourself on your exhibit.”

Newt hesitated, his mind rebelling with the need to object, but as he was met with Percival’s calm yet unyielding gaze, he refrained himself and gave a resigned nod.

“Alright… But you’ll come join us later on?” Newt asked hopefully, wincing internally at the plea in his voice. He barely had time to feel embarrassed for his selfish behavior when the doctor nodded in response, his eyes taking on an amused glint.

“Of course. I don’t want to miss anything.”

Percival’s gaze didn’t waver from Newt’s face, and suddenly the artist felt his skin prickle under the gentle caress of those eyes. The anxiety that had kept twisting his insides the whole day lessened a bit and warmth settled in his chest, making him feel secure and comforted in the promise that Mr. Graves had made to him at the beach. 

He dared to assume that Percival was also thinking about their past shared interaction as his charcoal eyes softened upon seeing Newt duck his head in an attempt to hide the timid smile that bloomed on his face, dusky freckles turning darker as a blush spread over his cheeks.

The spell was broken when Tina cleared her throat, making Newt flinch. He was certain his face was beet red by now as he saw his friend smile in amusement, her brown eyes twinkling knowingly.

“I don’t want to interrupt your conversation, but we have to go, _now_ ,” Tina chastised fondly and chuckled at Newt’s flustered state. She didn’t wait for him to sputter an annoyed reply as she glanced over at Percival and added, “I hope we’ll soon have other occasions to get further acquainted, Mister Graves. I’m glad we met.”

Percival offered her a genuine smile in return and inclined his head.

“It’s my pleasure, Miss Goldstein. I’m looking forward to it.”

Newt exchanged another fleeting look with Percival before Tina grabbed him by the arm and ushered him towards the corridor that lead to the exhibition hall.

They were barely out of Mr. Graves’ sight when the brunette sent Newt a side-glance, a pensive expression settling over her face as a light smile curled on her red painted lips.

“He truly likes you.”

“Huh?” Newt tried to ignore the flitting swell beneath his ribcage as he processed what he just heard. “And what leads y--”

“I’m just saying,” Tina interrupted him gently and slipped her hand underneath the artist’s arm, her fingers splaying elegantly on the black fabric of his suit. If there was an outside observer, they would see a young, posh couple on their way to a luxurious gala.

“I don’t know if he’s always like this, but I can tell in the way he talks to you and looks at you that he is quite infatuated with you,” Tina said, then added after a brief pause, “When I was searching for you… he was suddenly there - popping out of nowhere - and asked after your wellbeing. He looked so concerned; it was both endearing and surprising.”

Newt didn’t know what to answer as he took in Tina’s words. He felt guilty about making Percival worry, but at the same time he couldn’t help but bask in the thought of being protected and cared for. It was a pleasant and dizzying feeling he didn’t expect himself to be so quickly addicted to.

“You mean it?” the artist asked hesitantly, making Tina snort, a fond smile gracing her delicate features.

“You’re so sweet. But seriously now,” the brunette squeezed his arm, her eyes looking at him with stern insistence, “whatever you intend to do from now on, don’t let him ever disrespect you, and if something makes you upset, I’m there if you need me.”

“You make it sound like he’s going to eat me alive,” Newt teased, yet he was moved by Tina’s declaration. He gave her light shove with his elbow and chuckled at her failure to maintain her face serious for much longer. “Thank you, Tina. I truly appreciate it… You’re the best.”

Tina ‘hmphed’ and muttered something unintelligible under her breath, but then elbowed Newt in return with a grin making her eyes crinkle at the corners.

“You’re impossible.”

\---

The sound of people chattering and laughing was nearly deafening to Newt’s ears as he crossed the threshold of the exhibition hall. He had the eerie impression that the number of guests had multiplied during his absence, the paintings on the walls becoming nearly invisible behind the moving crowd.

Newt swallowed and already felt the tell-tale pressure on his ribcage, making it unable to expand, his lungs straining to fill themselves with air. A thrumming sound invaded his ears, making the guests’ conversations around him sound distant and muffled as though filtering through a cushion that someone had pressed against both of his ears.

 _No, not again_ , he thought and quickly pressed his eyes shut, trying desperately to fight down the panic that threatened to crawl up his throat. A pained, tiny whimper escaped his lips as he sought out Percival in his thoughts. He recalled how the man had cradled Newt’s hand against his chest, instructing him to follow his breathing pattern. Newt had felt so secure at that moment, all dark fears slowly drifting away as he willed his body to calm down under the gentle and rumbling sound of Percival’s voice.

Before he even knew what he was doing, Newt drew in a shaky breath and exhaled while attempting to draw it out for a few more seconds, then repeated the procedure. He failed many times at maintaining a convenient rhythm, his breath getting stuck in his throat at certain moments, making him gag. Yet the nagging fear that twisted his guts eased out bit by bit while he was focused on his breathing. 

He slowly came back to himself as the thrumming in his ears faded and the dizziness which had nearly made his knees buckle became just a faraway sensation tingling at the tips of his fingers. The artist’s eyes flew open at once when Tina’s hand tentatively reached for his, her fingers drawing soothing circles on his knuckles, and it was only then that he realized that his hands had been trembling like leaves rustling in the storm.

“Newt,” Tina murmured lowly, her big eyes searching his face, to which Newt only shook his head and managed a weak smile. He squeezed her hand, despite the inner discomfort he felt at his sweaty palm.

“I’m alright, Tina. Everything is fine.”

Before Tina could say something in rebuttal, a loud and high voice erupted from the crowd, calling Newt’s name, and they both turned around to see Queenie and Jacob striding towards them, a look of utter relief appearing on their faces as their gaze fell on the artist.

“Newt, you’re back!” Queenie squealed and reached out to take both of Newt’s hands, clutching them in the soft and cool embrace of her fingers. Newt couldn’t be happier for the fact that she didn’t attempt to hug him. He wasn’t sure why, but at the moment he felt too claustrophobic and itchy in his own skin to even consider being held by anyone.

“We were searching for you everywhere, you just disappeared,” Jacob huffed out, his chest weaving and his full cheeks flushed red from running. “Are you alright, pal? You look pale.”

“More or less,” Newt replied with a sheepish chuckle, his voice still trembling around the edges. “I’m sorry I left you like that… I wasn’t feeling well.”

“You sure you don’t want to sit down for a bit? You really don’t look well,” Jacob pointed out with concern, and Queenie made a soft ‘tsk’ sound at her husband’s remark.

“Honey. Stop fussing around him,” Queenie chided. “I think poor Newt already had to put up with Tina’s restlessness. We don’t need to add more to it.”

“Hey!” Tina exclaimed indignantly, but Queenie graciously ignored her and faced Newt again, her twinkling pale-blue eyes growing soft as they danced across his face. 

Suddenly, as if finding something written on his forehead, the blonde woman grinned widely and let out a giggle, a gleam appearing in her gaze, which gave Newt the eerie impression that she knew exactly where he had been and with _whom_. The artist was aware he probably shouldn’t read too much into Queenie’s eccentric behavior, yet it wasn’t the first time that she proved herself to be capable of reading people like an open book with unsettling accuracy. 

“I know that you’re nervous, but we’re here to support you,” Queenie chirped and looked around in amazement as she took in the sumptuous décor. “Your paintings are exposed in such a marvelous place and everyone has come to see them. This is so exciting!”

“Queenie, calm down,” Tina groaned as a few heads turned around and sent them curious looks. Not that Queenie’s sparkling appearance was already gaining attention from many male guests who kept sending her indiscreet leers from above the rim of their champagne glasses. Newt himself had to admit that today she was looking particularly dashing in her pearl-colored sleeveless gown which was stitched with silvery, sinuous patterns that followed the curves of her slim body, the open cut of the back area revealing a suggestive view on the elegant arch of her spine. Her golden locks which were cradled by a silky, transparent headband glowed like a halo in the lights of the chandeliers, rendering her warm aura even more luminous than it already was.

“It’s true,” Jacob hummed in affirmation and exchanged a gleeful look with his wife. “I still can’t believe this is actually happening. You’ve made it far, Newt.”

The baker lifted his glass in a toast, which earned him a doubtful snort from the redhead.

“Don’t congratulate me now, Jacob. The event hasn’t even begun yet.”

“Mister Scamander! There you are!”

Newt’s heart made a frantic leap as he recognized the powerful voice that could only belong to M. Binet, and he turned around to see the giant man walking up to him and clapping a hand on his shoulder, the impact nearly making the artist’s body fold in half.

“Monsieur Binet,” Newt gasped, his breath hitching as M. Binet dragged him enthusiastically towards the centre of the hall, in eye range of every present guest. 

“Your time to shine has arrived, Mister Scamander,” M. Binet cheered and peered down at the artist, an encouraging smile spreading behind his moustache. “Now I’m going to make an announcement, and later on you can chitchat with our guests while they admire your paintings. And don’t forget; enjoy yourself and don’t be destabilized by the critiques some of them may make. What matters now is that you have the opportunity to promote yourself.”

Not really assured by M. Binet’s words, Newt swallowed past the lump in his throat and nodded. His gaze kept darting across the room in an attempt to find his lost friends among the assembled people, his mind instinctively trying to block out the numerous pairs of unknown eyes that looked at him with mild curiosity.

He straightened his back when he suddenly spotted a familiar mop of long, raven-black hair, and a little sound of surprise left his mouth as he recognized Percival’s adoptive son Credence. The young man seemed to be in a hurry as he tried to force his way through the crowd in order to reach the exit, his hazel eyes narrowed to slits as if annoyed by the people blocking his path. Another person joined him by the time he arrived at the far end of the hall, but Newt didn’t have the time to see who it was. M. Binet was already demonstratively clearing his throat, the imperious tone in his voice making the chatter cease at once.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is my greatest pleasure to welcome you to the _Hotel Aubépine_ ’s first hosting of a very special art exhibit,” M. Binet began with a grand sweep of his arm, a few guests clapping their hands already as he grinned cheekily at the crowd. “Nooow, I don’t want to beat around the bush and keep you waiting for much longer, since you haven’t just come here to drink my latest _Pol Roger_ champagne.”

Chuckles rose from the assembly at M. Binet’s feigned accusation, and before the amused murmurs could grow louder, he smoothly went on, “To some of you it isn’t news by now that I have in my possession quite a great number of paintings that I’ve commissioned over the past years from an artist whom I admire very much and have the honor to correspond with on a regular basis.”

Newt’s heart hammered so fast he was sure his ribcage was going to burst when he felt every gaze on him, and even though M. Binet’s flamboyant speech warmed him, he couldn’t truly enjoy it as his mind was once again focused on keeping his unhealthy breathing pattern in check.

“He is a young soul who is drawn to adventure; always traveling around the world, capturing sceneries and other breathtaking things our eyes can only hope to see. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, _Newton Scamander_.”

A polite applause emitted from the crowd, mimicking M. Binet as he turned towards the artist and enthusiastically clapped his hands. Unsure how to react, Newt bowed - which mostly resembled a clumsy jerk of his head - before the assembled guests and muttered a rushed “Thank you for coming.”. 

He doubted that they had even heard him as he saw them already picking up their chatter and strolling around the place as though he wasn’t even there. Newt would be a liar if he said that he didn’t feel a little hurt by the way they snobbishly ignored him, but at least he could find a tad of consolation in the thought that he didn’t have to deal again with the nerve-wracking sensation of being scrutinized.

Some of Newt’s discomfort must have shown on his face, because M. Binet patted his shoulder and winked at him before he was suddenly swept up by a haughty looking couple into an animated conversation, leaving Newt alone to his own demise.

Not wanting to be already disappointed and doubtful about the progress of this event, Newt took a deep, long breath and straightened his back in a semblance of self-motivation, then walked with hesitant steps towards a little group of guests which was standing in front of a painting he had drawn during his stay in a quiet village of the Toscana in Italy.

He couldn’t suppress the nostalgic smile that crept over his face as he remembered the weeks he had resided there, walking through hilly cobbled alleyways, past houses covered with climbing plants and vines; the warm smell of fresh bread flowing in the air as he observed a boy exiting a bakery and loading a few loaves - gently packaged in a cloth - into a basket that was attached to his bike, and cycling past the artist in a rush, down the curvy slope of the walkway.

It was an ordinary scene, really. Not very meaningful. Yet, it had filled Newt with calm contentment and a sensation of certain wistfulness as he watched the boy disappearing swiftly behind a house. Drawing people’s day-to-day lives had always been like a therapeutic process that made him forget for a fleeting moment the agitated waves of his own chaotic mind. Maybe the scene of the boy on his bicycle didn’t compete to the dramatic and impressive tableaux of Géricault, but it had a personal significance to the artist he hoped outside observers would be able to glimpse, even if it drew up emotions and memories in them that differed completely from his own.

Newt was pulled out of his thoughts when he heard a woman say among the group, “Well, the scene looks pretty. The colors are too soft for my taste, though.”

“I’ve seen this many times on other paintings before. A bit unoriginal and tacky, if you ask me,” a man with bushy eyebrows interjected with a bored huff before he took a swig from his champagne flute and proceeded to talk about another subject with his neighbor, who only seemed to be listening with half an ear, given the way she pursed her lips and pointedly kept her gaze fixed on the canvas.

A mirthless smile tugged at the corners of Newt’s lips as he took in their words, a sigh of resignation slipping past his mouth. Well, at least they were honest.

Newt wondered if it was common for rich upper-class people to be so resentful towards art that distinguished itself a bit from the styles they were usually accustomed to, but after more dragging minutes listening to their comments, he had to come to the sad conclusion that his chances to gain a little recognition were close to null. He didn’t know why he was so naïve to hope that his first exhibit was going to be successful. He had heard enough from other artists whose art only started to gain attention after numerous failed exhibits, or worse; after their death. 

Newt was used to critics and untactful comments, yet it still felt like a jab to his chest as he nodded silently at a man in a white tuxedo who sneered at him in a condescending manner while rattling off all the flaws he saw in a painting which showed a sunset creeping through the trees over the muddy sees of Camargue in France.

The redhead wasn’t sure whether he should feel bitter, resigned or just apathetic as the man rambled on, “I’m not an art historian, by all means. But I think this piece here needs a little revising, don’t take it personally.” The man’s eyes raked up and down Newt’s body with an arched brow as though he was wearing the shabbiest clothing on earth, then added, “You draw since you’re a child, you say?”

“Yes, I do,” Newt answered coolly and suddenly wished desperately for a strong drink, which was unusual from him. “Thank you for your meticulous and thoughtful analysis. I’ll keep your advice in mind.”

The man’s smile froze in place upon hearing Newt’s reply, seeming to realize that he had gone too far, but Newt had come to a point where he didn’t care anymore. With a last nod of his head, he excused himself and turned on his heel, resuming his aimless walk through the exhibition hall.

A sudden wave of exhaustion crashed over him and a headache started to pound behind his eyes. He wanted to find his friends and leave this dreadful place. Maybe this event may have turned into a disappointing experience, but at least it was a sign that his paintings were truly just meant to be private and undisturbed. Newt felt silly for daring to show his vulnerability, and it made his face heat up with humiliation. He knew that his friends and Percival had only meant it well, but he couldn’t deny the hurtful fact any longer. Saying ‘yes’ to the exhibit had been a bad idea all along.

Newt was suddenly very glad that Mr. Graves hadn’t arrived at the hall yet. He didn’t want him to see the downright pitiful look the whole scene must’ve been making. The doctor may appreciate Newt’s paintings and admire him, but it didn’t suffice to push away the sickening feeling that flared up in his chest.

Before the artist’s dark ruminations could become any worse, he heard the sound of someone clearing their throat behind his back, and with a queasy sensation pulling at his stomach he slowly turned around. 

His eyes widened slightly upon seeing the source of the sound before him. It came in the form of a tall man with dirty-blond hair who wore a black suit with matching silver cufflinks and a red tie. He had a lean nose, a two-day stubble and kind looking gray eyes that reminded Newt of a misty winter’s day, and he held himself in an aloof manner that expressed a dormant force simmering silently but deadly under the surface of his serene demeanor. One might have overlooked him in a crowded street if it wasn’t for the numerous tattoos that covered his throat and hands, and Newt was certain there were more of them hidden behind his suit.

The man looked like he jumped straight out of a circus poster, which clearly was a great contrast to the sparkling and fancy scenery of the hotel.

With a mix of suspicion and tentative curiosity, Newt faced him properly and held his gaze with a hint of defiance, even though his heart was fluttering like the wings of a scared bird.

“Yes?” he asked, sharper than he intended to, and the man held one hand up in a sign of apology.

“Pardon me, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you like that,” he said with a slight accent that made his voice sound raspy yet soft to the ear. “You’re the artist Newton Scamander, I presume?”

Newt gave a slow nod, still not quite sure where this conversation was heading, and he bit his lip before he asked hesitantly, “Yes, I am. And with whom have I the pleasure to talk?”

The tattooed man chuckled softly and rubbed the bridge of his nose in a sheepish manner before he reached out his hand. 

“Where are my good manners? My name is Raymond. Raymond Grabowski. I’m the owner of a bunch of art galleries here in New York. I don’t know if you’ve heard my name before.”

Upon hearing those words, Newt’s breath caught in his throat and he suddenly felt a little embarrassed by the furtive thought that the man really didn’t look like an art curator. But what did an art curator look like anyway?

With a slight blush, Newt cleared his throat and took the man’s offered hand. 

“Ah-- pleased to meet you, Mister Grabowski. I’m sorry, but since I’m new here, I’m quite ignorant of most art galleries in New York. My apologies.”

Mr. Grabowski laughed warmly and somehow his smiling face made Newt feel a bit more at ease, and he didn’t notice that he was mirroring the man’s smile in return.

“Don’t worry, I understand,” Mr. Grabowski chuckled and gave a curt handshake, his grip firm and confident. “I came here because I’m searching for a new little gem amongst the art world, and it happens that I’ve received an invitation from Monsieur Binet that told me explicitly to come here and see the works of a certain Newton Scamander.”

The man smiled, and Newt had to avert his eyes, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

“Well… I hope I didn’t make you lose your time,” he said, his voice straining to sound light and humorous as he braced himself for another deception.

His surprise nearly left him reeling as he heard Mr. Grabowski say, “On the contrary. Your paintings are exactly what I’ve been looking for.”

Afraid to believe what he just heard, Newt snapped his head up and gave the tattooed man an incredulous look.

“I beg your pardon?” he nearly squeaked, to which Mr. Grabowski answered with an amused grunt.

“Believe me, it’s been months since I’ve been searching for an artist who can capture the most mundane things and convey through them a message that stirs the rawest emotions inside the watcher.” Mr. Grabowski’s eyes were filled with a subtle yet vivid gleam as he let his gaze wander along Newt’s exposed paintings. “Your paintings show something that so few have witnessed throughout their lives. When I see them, I have the impression that I’m traveling too, seeing sceneries whose existence has remained hidden to my eye until now.”

Newt was definitely _not_ gulping when the man’s gray eyes flashed back to meet his gaze and looked at him with a steely glint that seemed to bolt through him like lightning.

The artist was barely able to recuperate from the intensity of the curator’s look when Mr. Grabowski added in a solemn tone, “I’ve seen too many paintings that try so hard to impress by showing grand scenes, yet have nothing really meaningful to convey. What I admire about your works is that they show a reality most people are reluctant to see. You aren’t afraid to express your emotions. You aren’t afraid to show the cruel yet beautiful reality of the world. You are fearless. I like it.”

“Mister Grabowski. I--I don’t know what to say,” Newt stammered, completely taken off-guard by the man’s ardent speech. He felt overwhelmed, incredulous, relieved and euphoric all at once, and he wasn’t sure if he would be able to form a coherent sentence anytime soon. Newt wanted to protest. He wanted to say that his art was far from being fearless, but the only sound that came out of his mouth was a little croak of disbelief.

“You don’t have to say anything. Just accord me the honor to arrange a future meeting for us two, so I can take a better look at your paintings without the whole hustle-and-bustle,” Mr. Grabowski said while throwing an exasperated look at the crowd, making Newt chuckle shyly.

“I feel honored, Mister Grabowski. Thank you,” Newt breathed, unable to keep the tremor from his voice as his mind was still scrambling to believe what was currently happening.

The art curator smiled brightly, obviously pleased by Newt’s answer and swiftly pulled out a little card out of his side-pocket, presenting it to the artist with a bow that comically reminded Newt of Percival’s trademark head tilt.

“Then allow me to give you my business card. My coordinates are all written on it. I’ll give you the necessary time to think over my proposition. You can reach me whenever you want.”

Newt nodded, still somewhat dazed, and gently plucked the business card from Mr. Grabowski’s hand, his eyes automatically drawn to the curved black letters on the white surface. There was a red crest in form of a lion depicted next to the man’s name, which made him realize that the same image was tattooed on the back of Mr. Grabowski’s left hand.

Before he could ponder on the significance of it, a hand suddenly settled on his shoulder and Newt’s heart made a joyous leap upon seeing Percival standing next to him, his warm gaze instantly making the artist’s remaining apprehension fade away.

“Percival.”

A sudden urge to throw his arms around the doctor’s neck and bury his face against his chest overcame him, and he had to take all of his willpower to restrain himself from doing it as he was still aware of Mr. Grabowski’s presence and the people around him.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to come back, Newt. Is everything alright?” Percival inquired with a slight frown, his eyes searching attentively for a sign of unease on Newt’s features, which only reinforced Newt’s desire to curl himself against the man’s frame, his presence making the anxious side in him feel secure and appeased.

“I’m fine,” Newt replied with a reassuring smile, his gaze quickly drawn to Percival’s knee. “And you…?”

Percival gave an inquisitive hum, but then comprehension dawned on him and his eyes crinkled at the corners as he answered Newt’s smile.

“Much better. Old me keeps forgetting that I shouldn’t wear out my leg so much.”

Percival suddenly sobered up as he became aware of Mr. Grabowski’s presence, and a flash of recognition passed through his eyes, his thick brows shooting up in mild surprise.

“Ah, Raymond. What a surprise.”

“Doctor Graves,” the art curator exclaimed with a bright smile. “How nice to see you again. Been a while.”

“You two know each other?” Newt couldn’t help but blurt out as he shot Percival a look of bewildered confusion, to which the doctor responded with a wry chuckle.

“We’re old comrades, if I can name it like that. To be more precise, Raymond is Lionel’s voice of reason.”

“You flatter me so,” Mr. Grabowski rasped, before adding in a more serious tone, “Speaking of which; how is he doing?”

“I think you should ask him yourself, since he is at the exhibit as well. He’ll be more than happy to see you.”

“It is very considerate of you to say, Doctor Graves, but I highly doubt that,” Mr. Grabowski smiled benignly with an underlying weariness lacing his tone. “Wish him my best regards, though.”

With those words, the art curator faced Newt again, his serene smile never wavering as they exchanged another firm handshake.

“It’s a pleasure meeting you, Mister Scamander. Please know that my offer still stands. I’ll be waiting for your call.”

Newt nodded enthusiastically, his nerves already thrumming with excitement at the prospect of a future meeting with him.

“You’ll hear from me. Thank you so much, Mister Grabowski. It means a lot to me.”

Mr. Grabowski hummed, and then tipped his head before he turned towards Percival and gave him a brief pat on the shoulder.

“Doctor Graves.”

“Raymond.”

The art curator left and had barely departed the hall when Percival murmured with apparent admiration in his voice, “I see you’ve gained the attention of the famous Grabowski. I’m impressed.”

Newt immediately felt his cheeks heat up and he turned to meet the doctor’s gaze.

“I don’t know how it happened. He just came up to me and told me that he is very interested in my works.” The redhead made a pensive sound, his eyes peering up at Percival with barely concealed curiosity. “He said that he owns a few art galleries. Is he well known in New York?”

Mr. Graves gave an affirmative hum.

“Oh, yes. Partly because he has quite the tumultuous life-course that makes many people dream or shake their heads in disbelief. He went from former boxer to business man and art curator in a short time, quickly working his way up to the top. He doesn’t mix himself with the upper class, though. Surely because they make sure to remind him that he’ll always be the ‘poor, polish immigrant’.”

Percival said the last words with an inaudible sigh, a spark of barely concealed anger appearing in his eyes before it disappeared as soon as it came.

“As far as I know him, I can assure you that he has a very keen eye for art, that’s why his galleries are so coveted in the first place. He’s known to be quite strict and hard to please. But your paintings seem to have struck something in him.”

Newt gnawed on his lower lip, digesting the whole information. He couldn’t help but feel a certain sense of admiration and sympathy for the art curator, knowing very well the struggle to make ends meet. At the same time he couldn’t be more honored to have gained the attention of a man who was known to be a real art connoisseur. 

He couldn’t believe his luck.

Suddenly, the redhead let out a breathless, somewhat shaky laugh, making Percival pause with a slightly confused look on his face.

“Is… something the matter?”

“No, it’s just--” Newt took a deep breath as he felt the tell-tale tremble of his fingers, and he offered Percival a strained smile. “Just moments ago, I was convinced that nobody was going to pay my art any attention. I felt that this exhibit was going to be a total disaster. You must have seen them. They all kept denigrating my skills, trying to find ways to hurt me personally.”

“Newt…” 

A pained expression settled over Percival’s features, his brows knitting into a frown, his dark eyes searching.

Before the older man could utter another word, Newt hastily went on, “But I’m used to it. I’ve heard worse before. Perhaps it just stings more because it is the first time I expose myself to so many strangers. It… is frightening, to say the least.”

Newt felt a wet prickle at the corners of his eyes, and he angrily wiped at them with the hem of his suit, a flush spreading over his face.

“I know it’s stupid to let other people’s judgments make me doubt my own self-worth, because I know that I love what I do, and the feelings I pour into my paintings are valid and true… Though, sometimes… it’s just difficult for me to believe in myself.”

The artist looked down at his hands, absently trailing a finger along his scars as he let out a weak chuckle.

“I must sound ungrateful right now. You’ve been so supportive… I’ve just gotten a request for a potential meeting from a famous gallery owner, and my negative thoughts keep getting in the way.”

A moment passed where none of them said a word. Newt felt suddenly self-conscious and embarrassed all over again, fearing that Percival was surely fed up by now with his nonsensical ramblings. How could he blame him?

Newt was already scrambling for an apology when Percival suddenly said in a low voice, barely above a whisper, “Newt, if only you could see yourself through my eyes…”

At those words, Newt lifted his head with a start, his heart skipping a beat when he met Percival’s gaze. Again, he felt as though his skin was being caressed by the intensity of those eyes, and the shudder that ran down his spine definitely didn’t come from the fresh sea wind that flowed through the open windows of the hall.

“Pardon?”

“You don’t realize that what you are doing right now - exposing your paintings before the masses - is a great act of courage,” the older man said, his tone firm and unyielding, leaving no place for any rebuttal. “Especially in such a place that is filled with snobbish aristocrats who dare to call themselves art experts. It’s in their nature to attack the dignity of a person who comes from a different background and shows them something that doesn’t stick to their rigged standards. I am fortunate enough to admit that I come from a wealthy family myself, but trust me; I know how it is to be at the receiving end of hateful mockery.”

Percival paused and pressed out a long sigh, his eyes suddenly looking tired and far-away as though he just recalled a painful memory.

“There is a difference between constructive criticism and degrading comments. I understand that it makes you doubt about yourself. This whole event is stressful enough to handle. But please, don’t take their words into account. They aren’t worth it. It’s their loss if they can’t see what a resourceful and unique person you are.”

Newt ducked his head, rendered speechless by Percival’s words. Warmth crawled its way back through his limbs, producing a bashful smile that Newt was unable to suppress. His eyes were becoming watery, the stress of the day and exhaustion pulling at his strained nerves like strings, but now he couldn’t care less. He was overcome by the manic temptation to hold onto the older man and plant timid kisses on the corners of his serious mouth; to express how grateful he was. How much his words meant to him. But his hesitation made his unsteady resolve crumble, and he found himself offering a soft smile instead, his ears turning pink when Percival smiled warmly in return.

“Now…” Percival stepped up to him and made an elegant gesture toward the nearest painting, his eyes gleaming with mirth. “Would you give me the pleasure to contemplate your works in your dashing company?”

Feeling the pent-up tension leaving his body at once, Newt giggled at Percival’s ridiculously eloquent words and nodded, a blush sprawling across his cheeks.

“Of course,” he breathed with newly regained giddy excitement and led Percival towards the painting with the thought that he might perhaps still enjoy this evening after all.

\---

The rest of the evening went by in a blur. Newt had lost all track of time as he walked alongside Percival around the exhibition hall, looking at his paintings and exchanging occasional warm glances and hushed words, unaware of the other guests who were gathered around them, as though they were in their own little bubble.

Sometimes Percival would stop in front of a canvas and look at it with rapt attention, silently letting his gaze roam along each detail of the painted shapes. Then he would make a fervent compliment that always resulted in Newt feeling warm and giddy all over, hiding his glee behind a fond eye-roll.

At some point Tina, Queenie and Jacob joined them, and hours passed in which they got acquainted with the doctor and bombarded Newt with excited questions about his future appointment with Mr. Grabowski as soon as they heard the good news. Tina was nearly teary-eyed as she pulled Newt into a tight hug, and Queenie and Jacob instantly made their way towards the buffet and came back with more champagne, handing Newt and Percival one flute before lifting their glasses in a toast.

Queenie and Jacob were particularly loud with their cheers and explosive laughter, attracting indignant and haughty looks from the surrounding guests. But for once, Newt felt completely indifferent to their offense and joined his friends’ joyful banter while taking a careful sip from his champagne, the alcohol creating a warm, pleasant buzz in his belly. During the whole time his eyes kept subtly darting towards Percival, and when the man met his gaze, he was seized by a tingling heat that must have shown on his face, given the way Percival’s eyes seemed to suddenly take on a smoldering glint as they raked over his features.

The artist didn’t have time to linger on the dizzying sensation as Tina suddenly exclaimed with a hiccup that she needed to sleep, her pale complexion already covered with red splotches as the alcohol started to take its toll on her light-weighted nature. Newt couldn’t help but smile fondly at her slurred apologies and attempts at giving Newt another clumsy hug as he accompanied her towards the exit with Queenie and Jacob in tow, supporting her swaying body.

Deciding to call it a day too, Jacob nudged Newt’s shoulder with his elbow and gave him a thumbs-up - grinning cheekily - while Queenie sent Percival a discreet glance, then looked back at Newt with a knowing smile spreading over her delicate features and murmured, “You’ve caught yourself some very handsome fella, Newt. You two should drop by at our bakery. It would make us happy.”

Newt felt his cheeks burn under her teasing giggle, and before he could muster a half-hearted protest, Queenie gave him a peck on his forehead with a whispered “Proud of you.” and joined her husband and a worryingly green looking Tina at the exit.

Their retreating forms were barely out of sight when Percival said, “I feel honored that I could meet your friends today. You mean a lot to them.”

Newt smiled to himself and nodded, a fond look adorning his freckled face.

“They’re very dear to me too. I consider them as my family.” His smile turned wistful as his mind drifted towards cherished memories. “I don’t know what I’d be without them.”

Both men exchanged a quiet, content look before Percival said after a brief silence, “A strong friendship is the greatest blessing one can have. I…” An indiscernible look appeared in his eyes before he added in an absent tone, “I don’t know what I would’ve become myself.”

Newt perked up upon hearing Percival’s words, a strange feeling pulling at his stomach as the doctor suddenly seemed lost in thoughts, a shadow passing briefly over his features. 

The artist would have nearly thought that his imagination was playing him a farce as Percival quickly returned to his collected self and looked at Newt with an expectant smile, the odd fog in his eyes vanished.

“I think there are still a few paintings that I haven’t seen yet. Would you care to show them to me?”

Still puzzled by what he had just sawn, Newt internally shook himself, leaving his musings for another moment, and answered with a little quirk to his lips.

“You don’t need to ask me, Percival,” he replied with a playful edge to his tone and a timid smile. “I’m glad you appreciate them.”

They walked in comfortable silence towards another painting that hung right in front of them, and Newt’s breath hitched as he laid his eyes on the canvas, memories of chilly days in a battered city and endless roaming through barren woods floating into his mind.

“I like this painting,” Percival said, startling Newt off his thoughts. “I feel connected to it, in some strange way.”

Newt followed the man’s gaze and made a puzzled sound.

“Really? How come?”

“I don’t know… There is something about the woman’s posture. Her bruised hands and shabby clothes. It clearly looks like she has a rough life, its weight bearing on her shoulders. And yet, there is a peaceful aura to her. The way she is holding her child... It shows that life can be harsh and cruel, but there is still some beauty to it that makes it worth living.”

Upon seeing the far-away look on Percival’s face, Newt could somehow sense that there was a parallel to the man’s past in liaison to this painting; a connection that wasn’t revealed yet. Feeling a little hesitant and suddenly nervous, the artist wetted his chapped lips, before he said in a cautious tone, “I drew her while I was in Bavaria, two years after the war.”

Newt became even more alert as something shifted in Percival’s eyes. The doctor’s voice was strangely flat as he responded, “You were in Bavaria. In direct aftermath of the war.”

“I wasn’t there for vacation, mind you,” Newt retorted, feeling a bit defensive after hearing Percival’s remark. “I was accompanying my older brother, Theseus, who had to make a trip to Munich for a case that is far too complex for me to describe. He’s a lawyer.”

Percival seemed to have picked on the concealed tension in the artist’s tone as he offered Newt a faint apologetic smile and looked back at the painting with an inaudible sigh.

“I never implied you were there because you just felt like doing it. I’m--” Percival shook his head, the muscles of his jaw working as though struggling with what he was about to say. “Nevermind.”

There it was again. This guarded look. That impassive expression Newt was confronted to whenever he tempted to approach Percival about his life. With a slight feeling of unease he wanted to ask if he was alright when suddenly, chilling realization crashed over him like a broken dam, and his heart made a painful stutter as he recalled the strange patterns he had witnessed in the doctor’s behavior: his extreme sensitivity and violent reaction to sudden noise; the unsettlingly dreary, empty look he had in his eyes at certain moments; his injured knee… 

“You-- you were there, during the war… Weren’t you?” Newt whispered in a weak breath, and instantly regretted saying it when Percival’s face crumbled for a brief moment, a look of panic jolting through his eyes, before it quickly morphed into detached coldness that felt like a knife stab to Newt’s heart.

It took him completely off guard when Percival averted his eyes, a sudden, exhausted expression settling over his face, making him look years older. There was a fragility to it that provoked an overwhelming urge in Newt to comfort the man, rub the deep frown away from his stricken face. But instinctively, he knew that the doctor would interpret it as an act of mock pity, especially now that a devastating aspect of his past had been revealed despite himself.

Newt swore internally for his lack of sensitivity. He should have kept this revelation to himself and waited for the right opportunity to talk to him about it. But, when would it ever happen?

Newt’s guilt stricken ruminations came to a halt when Percival said in a lowered, measured voice, “No, not exactly.”

He squared his shoulders as though in an unconscious display of defiance, but at least his eyes didn’t have that hard bone chilling flicker anymore, and Newt couldn’t help but let out a shaky breath he didn’t know he had been holding the whole time.

“I was-- elsewhere. Spent the rest of the war in North-East France, to be more precise.”

“Oh…”

Instantly, more questions floated in Newt’s head, on the verge of spilling out of his mouth. But he restrained himself, not wanting to push the issue. The atmosphere was uncomfortably charged enough, and he would be a liar if he claimed that he wasn’t squirming under the scrutiny of Percival’s piercing eyes.

Seemingly recognizing the unease and barely concealed curiosity in Newt’s eyes, Percival’s gaze softened and he murmured in a milder tone, “I wasn’t fighting on the front, per se. I worked with the Medical Corps, which shouldn’t be a surprise really.”

He said the last part in a strained tone, as though in an attempt to sound unaffected and lighthearted - as if joking about the weather - but failing miserably. 

Newt couldn’t hold it any longer.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out, making Percival start in surprise. “I didn’t mean to confront you like that. You don’t have to talk about it. Sometimes I get ahead of myself and don’t realize that I make people uncomfortable. I’m sorry.”

“Newt…”

A warm hand cradled his arm and suddenly he realized that he was breathing shakily again, a slight tremor coursing through his limbs. He could barely suppress the yearning whimper at the back of his throat as he felt Percival’s fingers sliding along his forearm until they settled in a grounding grip around his hand.

Percival’s gaze was fond as Newt lifted his head to meet his eyes, producing a swelling feeling that warmed the artist’s body all over.

“Don’t apologize for something for which you aren’t responsible. I am the one who has to come to terms with myself.” The older man suddenly gave a sheepish chuckle and his eyes raked over Newt’s face as though seeing him for the first time, his voice lowering like an unspoken thought, “I should have seen it coming long before, because you’re so damn perceptive...”

Newt gave an inquisitive sound, unsure what to think of Percival’s riddled admission. But before he could ponder on his last words, the older man added solemnly, “I-- don’t want to remember… not now while we are celebrating your art. While there are so many people.”

Newt nodded, instantly agreeing to Percival’s request. The man had lowered his impenetrable walls and shown a raw, vulnerable part of himself; something that still made him suffer greatly and affected him until now, and Newt didn’t want to take it for granted. He wanted to show how much this act of trust meant to him and how much he wanted to cherish it.

“Yes,” Newt whispered and his heart fluttered when Percival squeezed his hand in answer. “Another time.”

“Well there you are, you lovebirds!”

The artist flinched at the sudden exclamation and jerked his hand out of Percival’s grip, instantly missing the grounding sensation of his warmth against his skin.

As both men turned around, they found Lionel and Credence standing right next to them, and given the smug look plastered on the pharmacist’s face, it clearly showed that he hadn’t missed their handholding. Newt instantly went beet-red, but fortunately, his embarrassment wasn’t long-lasting as Percival intervened with a muttered, “You clearly enjoy sneaking up on people, don’t you?”

Lionel just answered with a lazy grin while Credence blinked away, seemingly very interested in his shoes.

“Just wanted to congratulate our star of the day,” Lionel said and winked at Newt. “Your paintings are truly marvelous, Mister Scamander. I can’t help but be amazed by your technique. I wouldn’t be surprised if this gets you a promotion.”

Newt smiled timidly, flattered by the chemist’s sincerity and replied, “Thank you, Mister Parker, I appreciate it.”

“Is it true that each painting represents a scene you’ve witnessed during your travels?” Credence suddenly chimed in, his high cheekbones turning slightly pink when Newt faced him. “I-- I’m Credence, by the way. We haven’t truly gotten acquainted yet.”

“I’m glad to meet you Credence,” Newt said, and couldn’t help but grow instantly fond to the boy as Credence looked at him with genuine awe in his eyes and a smile that illuminated his whole face. “Percival has told me many great things about you; and yes, most of my paintings are products of what I’ve experienced while traveling.”

“Oh, that’s amazing! You’ve seen so many countries. I wish I could visit them too.”

“Well… It isn’t always like a pleasant stroll in the park,” Newt pointed out with a sheepish smile. “I wasn’t always welcome at some places and many countries aren’t very safe to travel to. But it was a humbling and enriching experience nonetheless.”

Credence nodded enthusiastically, his eyes wide with interest. 

“I imagine. It must be fascinating to learn from different countries and their respective customs.”

“Speaking of ‘promotion’,” Percival said and shot Lionel a long side-glance, a self-contented smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Newt just got acquainted with Raymond himself.”

“What?” Lionel choked on his breath and coughed, nearly tipping his champagne glass over. “You’re joking, right? It can’t be him, definitely not him!”

He dramatically drew in a wheezing breath and turned his head towards Newt while Credence patted his back with an indulgent smile. “Mister Scamander, I implore you. Don’t make business with him. I admit, he has fancy galleries, but that man is trouble.”

“I could say the same thing about you,” Percival said matter-of-factly, making the chemist’s eyes narrow into slits.

“Very funny. Where is this jerk?”

“He just left. Maybe you can still catch him. He sends you his regards, by the way.”

“He can shove his regards elsewhere. Excuse me, but I think I need a drink.”

Lionel downed the rest of his champagne with one large gulp before he stomped towards the buffet with a very amused looking Credence in tow, leaving Newt and Percival behind.

“What did just happen?” Newt asked bewildered after a brief awkward pause, and Percival snorted.

“Just Lionel being Lionel. Don’t listen to him. All you need to know is that they’ve been dancing around each other since their boxing careers. It’s nearly painful to watch.”

Newt’s brows shot up in confusion, his mind trying to wrap around the image of the chemist’s wiry and slight frame wearing boxer shorts and boxer gloves, standing next to the intimidating looking Mr. Grabowski.

Percival chuckled, seeming to have noticed the look on Newt’s face.

“Believe it or not, but Lionel used to be a champion. I think he would have stayed in the boxing world if he didn’t have to take over his parents’ apothecary after his older brother died.” 

Percival paused, letting his gaze wander around the hall, before he suddenly said in a pensive tone, “It’s getting quite late, don’t you think?”

Newt perked up at Percival’s words and followed his gaze. With mild surprise, he noticed that the number of guests had diminished, most of them long gone except for those who were still contemplating the canvases. A little embarrassed, Newt realized that he hadn’t taken those few guests into account who seemed genuinely interested in his paintings. But now he truly felt the heavy weight of exhaustion pulling at his limbs, and he wasn’t sure if he could cope with another hour of aimless conversations. He would still thank them for their presence once he was going to leave though.

“Yes, I haven’t noticed the time flowing by,” Newt conceded with a laugh and faced Percival with a hesitant look. “I… think I’m going to call it a day. I’m feeling tired and I don’t think someone will miss me when I leave before the exhibit ends.”

Percival hummed in response.

“That’s understandable. It has been quite stressful today, but you dealt with the event with courage and levelheadedness.” His gaze turned fond, his eyes gleaming softly. “You can be proud of yourself.”

Not knowing what to say, Newt could only smile, his chest bursting with warmth and hopeful glee.

Before he could whisper his thanks, the older man nodded at the exit and said, “If you want, I can escort you to your room.”

Newt flushed as he thought about the possible implications in Percival’s words, his mind producing all kinds of heated scenarios of its own accord. He was shocked by his own boldness as he heard himself breathe, “Yes, please…”

He hoped it wasn’t wishful thinking when he thought he saw a subtle, seductive edge to Percival’s answering smile.

“Lead the way.”

\---

Newt wasn’t sure why his fingers were trembling when he stopped in front of his hotel-room door and turned around to face Percival, a shiver running down his spine as soon as their eyes met. Something static hung in the air and he couldn’t point his finger on it, yet it left him positively giddy, his legs feeling like jelly as he let himself lean back against the door; the subconscious, bold part in him purring at the shy invitation his own posture was giving.

He had the sudden dizzying impression that the older man had made a step forward, crowding him against the door, dark hooded eyes keeping him planted against the surface like unyielding pins. Newt could see the fine threads in Percival’s navy-blue suit and smell the bewitching, masculine scent of his cologne that made him want to rub his face against the crook of the man’s neck. With mild surprise, he noticed that there were golden specks in Percivals eyes, making them gleam like amber in the dim light of the corridor.

The artist was hyperaware of the heat that emanated from Percival’s body, although they were both standing inches apart; separated, but near enough to notice the subtlest details in the other’s features. Without even noticing, Newt found himself averting his eyes and trailing his gaze appreciatively along Percival’s strong built, knowing that behind this suit was a body that had previously pulled him into a grounding embrace which had soothed all his fears away. 

Newt was sure Percival could hear his breath hitch when he dared to look up again and was met with the smoldering intensity of those eyes. The way they were raking over him in equally apparent interest made Newt believe with sudden abashment that Percival surely hadn’t missed the way he had been looking at him.

Suddenly, the air shifted, a charged atmosphere making the silence stretch between them, one man waiting for the other to make a move, breaths held with nervous anticipation.

Newt nearly made an embarrassing sound when he saw Percival’s gaze lingering on his lips, and he was certain the man’s pupils dilated a fraction as he subconsciously wetted his lower lip with a nervous tremor.

The intimate moment came to an abrupt end when Percival suddenly whipped his head around, eyes alert and searching. 

Feeling bereft by the unexpected change in the doctor’s behavior, Newt wanted to ask what was wrong when he heard many footsteps approaching the corridor, and a pretty drunk looking couple appeared around the corner. They were absorbed in their own heated chatter and shameless fondling, barely even noticing Newt’s and Percival’s presence as they walked by. Though, the doctor stepped away from Newt and placed himself next to him against the wall in order to let the giggling couple pass.

It was only once the couple disappeared at the other end of the corridor and both men were again left alone, that Newt allowed himself to let a out trembling breath, is heart racing at the thought of what might have happened if they hadn’t been just interrupted.

Before the artist could become more flustered, a sudden low chuckle came from his left and he turned around to face Percival with a confused look. When the older man caught his inquisitive gaze, he just smiled mildly.

“Well, they’re heading for a very exciting night.”

Newt puffed out a chuckle upon hearing Percival’s dry tone, his heart fluttering as he saw the mirthful gleam in the man’s eyes, the previously charged atmosphere morphing into a lighter, carefree one. Newt would have nearly believed that they weren’t exchanging heated stares just moments ago if his limbs weren’t still tickling from the lingering, arousing tension.

“I can’t blame them. I’m feeling quite happy too,” Newt breathed and flushed at his dared admission when Percival’s eyes turned hooded in response, amber depths trailing lazily over his face as they took in his pinked features.

“Count me in,” Percival murmured after a pause, and Newt could only offer a bashful smile as he desperately tried to even out his breathing which had started to accelerate after hearing the rumble in the man’s gravelly voice. His clothes suddenly felt too warm, and he was sure he was going to babble further nonsense that he would later regret if he didn’t put an end to it now. He could only blame the doctor for having such an effect on him.

Looking up from behind his fringe, Newt mumbled, “It was nice, Percival… Thank you. For everything you’ve done for me.”

Percival’s eyes softened, a warm promise lacing his tone as he answered, “Don’t thank me, Newt. _I_ should thank you for the stunning world you’ve shown us today with your paintings. I’ll never forget this wonderful moment.”

Newt felt the blush spread to his ears, his fringe falling over his eyes as he ducked his head to hide his smile; but before he could say something in reply, Percival made one step towards him and searched his gaze, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners when he managed to coax Newt to look at him again.

“I wondered if we could see each other again tomorrow, after you’ve rested well, of course,” the doctor murmured tentatively, to which Newt perked up and immediately nodded his head before he had even heard the whole sentence.

“Yes, yes, I’d love to,” Newt answered breathlessly and Percival chuckled, his face brightening upon hearing the artist’s enthusiastic reply.

“Excellent. Tomorrow, I’m paying a visit at a hospital in the city-center whose main function is to be a place of solace for homeless children and other people who can’t afford proper healthcare,” Percival explained. There was a brief second of hesitation before he went on in a measured tone, “I… think it’s the right moment to tell you that I’m the supervisor of a few of those hospitals here in New York, given the fact that my family has funded them and has fought for people’s wellbeing over centuries.”

Newt let out a little sound of wonder, the admiration he felt for Percival only becoming greater as he processed what he just heard. He wondered what other responsibilities Percival had on his shoulders and how far the influence of his family reached. Newt could only bet that the Graves family seemed to be one of those wealthy families with a philanthropic knack that had played a large part in history and had been the source of many great achievements in the improvement of social condition. He should have suspected that Percival was more than just a physician who happened to come from aristocratic descent and possessed a medical cabinet.

The knowledge was fascinating and intimidating at once.

“I imagine you don’t like to brag about this, but thank you nonetheless for telling me,” Newt said reverently. “I didn’t know your family was known for having founded so many hospitals. I find it truly admirable.”

Percival managed to look a tad sheepish as he mirrored Newt’s smile, and shook his head with a soft sigh.

“They did what they could. I’m humbled though that I can perpetuate my family’s credo by helping people the best way I can. I can’t say that those hospitals are my propriety, but I still have the responsibility to make sure that everything runs smoothly and that they get financial support.”

“That’s a great responsibility,” Newt agreed and bit his lip, cheeks turning pink as he thought about what he was going to say. “You’re a good man, Percival. I never doubted that.”

“Don’t say that,” Percival said, his voice soft, but his gaze turning sharp and serious. “If you knew what I’ve--” He stopped and let out a grunt, his eyes pinching shut as if pained. “You don’t know me well enough.”

“Well… Then let me know you better, and I’ll decide for myself,” Newt said tentatively, his heart clenching when a look of defiance and helplessness crossed the man’s eyes before it disappeared as fast as it came. “I’ll come with you, visit the hospital. That’s what you intended to ask me, didn’t you?”

Seemingly relieved by the change of subject, Percival nodded and offered Newt a thankful smile.

“I’d be more than pleased if you came with me, yes.”

Newt couldn’t help the hopeful flutter in his chest as he thought about another day in Percival’s company. He didn’t care to suppress the giddiness in his voice as he whispered, “I can’t wait.”

Silence settled, both men looking at each other with unsaid words on the tip of their tongues that they wanted to express but couldn’t dare, the memories of both of their pasts still sticking like fresh wounds to their skins. Though, there was a glimmer of cautious, hopeful trust building between them, and Newt decided to believe in it, as naïve and childish as it might sound…

Newt was pulled out of his absent state when Percival took hold of his hand and brought it up to his lips, warm breath making Newt’s skin prickle as the man let his lips slide millimeters above his knuckles, his dark eyes holding the artist’s gaze, pulling him into their depths.

Newt’s breath hitched when Percival started to plant soft kisses along his knuckles, leaving a heated trail in their wake. He tensed when he felt the rough pads of Percival’s fingers slide cautiously along the scars on his palm, silently asking for permission to touch them. He found himself giving it without a second thought, his mind reeling at the sensation of the man’s fingers touching each scar in a reverent caress. This shouldn’t make him feel safe; this shouldn’t make his battered core scream for more.

Newt started to tremble, his heart racing, not knowing how it should act as he was submerged by many emotions all at once. All his senses were zeroed in on the sensation of Percival’s fingers on his palm, and it felt overwhelming. 

Seeming to have sensed the slight tremor in Newt’s fingers, Percival planted a last peck on his knuckles and gently released his hand, and the artist found himself immediately longing for the sensual touch. Though, he was grateful for the man’s thoughtfulness, and a tiny smile tugged at his lips as Percival smiled at him warmly, dark eyes expressing a silent apology.

“Rest well, Newt. I’ll see you tomorrow,” the doctor murmured lowly.

Newt nodded, drawing in a breath as his body was still recuperating from the onslaught of sensations. If he was this affected by such a simple caress, in which state would he be if it became more?

“Goodnight, Percival… And thank you.”

They exchanged one last lingering look before Percival silently tipped his head and offered another smile. Then he turned around and left the corridor. Newt sagged against the door of his room and observed Percival’s retreating form, the sound of silence returning to the corridor like a heavy curtain, muffling Newt’s shaky sigh.

As Newt entered his room and made himself ready for bed, he kept pressing his knuckles to his lips, chasing after the memory of Percival’s kisses on his skin.

\---

Newt woke up the next morning with a slight headache and a strain in his muscles, as if he had run a long marathon the day before. Though, despite the heaviness in his limbs, he felt oddly relaxed and at peace.

He kept his face buried in the plush cushion and let out a long, drawn out sigh as he let himself get lulled by the soft rush of the waves flowing through the open window. As the minutes trickled by, the memories of the last events that had occurred last night reappeared in his mind. 

His vernissage had started on a bad note. Not only had he been overtaken by his inner fears, but later on it seemed that his works wouldn’t get as much positive attention as he hoped. He couldn’t be more grateful for having Tina and his friends who supported him, no matter how much he was affected by his self-doubt.

Newt absently trailed one finger along the healed marks on his palm as his thoughts instantly drifted towards Percival. He had felt so exposed and ashamed once the man had found him on the deckchair, afraid of what he might think of him. But Percival had surprised him by staying close to his side, comforting him with his solid presence and soothing words. It was as though he knew exactly what was plaguing the artist. Where most people scoffed at his anxieties, Percival treated him with calm understanding.

Percival was strong and always so self-assured. Nothing seemed to perturb his grounding presence despite the visible traces of a rough past his body was bearing. Yet, Newt had glimpsed through the cracks and was faced with a man who had the world’s weight on his shoulders and had endured terrible things Newt didn’t dare to think of. He knew what the war could do to people, and most of them became shadows of their former selves. 

It felt like a surprise, but also like a confirmation to his apprehensions at the same time, the fact that Percival had been active in the war; that he had witnessed people suffer and die before his eyes, waking up each day with the bone-chilling thought that it might be his last day…

Newt could only imagine the repercussions such traumatic events may have left on Percival’s soul.

Even though he started to learn more about the enigmatic man, it drew up more questions inside his head, leaving him restless and all the more curious. He had the nagging sensation that something dark was still looming behind Percival’s back, and there was more to Percival’s life than what the man was telling. But Newt understood. He knew better than to stick his nose in other people’s businesses. Though, he hoped that one day he would be able to help Percival and gain his trust. He couldn’t deny anymore that he felt hopelessly drawn to the man, and he dared to believe that Percival felt the same.

With tired groan, Newt slipped out of the warm bed and felt a smile tugging at his lips as his gaze landed on the business card on his bedside table. It still felt like a dream to him, knowing that he would soon have an appointment with a renowned art curator. He hoped that Mr. Grabowski was sincere with his desire to seek out his paintings and maybe forge a deal with him. Newt felt that a huge ‘Thank you’ was also due for M. Binet.

It was with a serene mind and hopeful giddiness that Newt took his usual breakfast in his room. Deciding that he deserved a treat, he ordered a plate of the finest smoked salmon, cut in even slices, with smooth cream cheese and fragrant whole-wheat bread, and colorful macaroons for his sweet tooth. 

With a pleasantly full stomach and after a self-indulgent bath, he spent the rest of the morning rummaging in his wardrobe in hope to find suitable clothes for what promised to be a warm, sunny day. He changed many times until he opted for fitting brown slacks, a matching waistcoat and a light-blue shirt which he found complimented his eyes and made the sharp edges of his knobby shoulders look softer.

It was already past midday when someone knocked at his door, startling the artist out of his critical self-contemplation in the mirror. With a fluttering heart, he went to open the door and a bright grin spread over his face when he saw no other person than Percival standing before him, looking handsome and alluring as ever. Just like Newt, he had divested his suit for more casual clothes; gray pants and a crisp white shirt that clung at the right places, the bulk of his flexing muscles standing out as the man lifted an arm to lean it casually against the door-frame, his posture relaxed and still so powerful like a sprawling panther.

“Percival.”

Newt blushed when Percival’s eyes raked over his form with apparent approval, before he hummed with a smile, “Good morning, Newt. Have you slept well?”

“Oh, yes. Like a rock. I’ve never been so exhausted since a long time, but I’m feeling quite invigorated now,” the artist replied, his cheeks growing warm when Percival’s smile widened in response, eyes crinkling.

“I’m glad to hear that. Yesterday has been very eventful, indeed. Now is the time for you to take it easy and let yourself enjoy the break.”

Newt made a sound of agreement.

“Yes, I need to gain some strength before I decide to take things further with my future art projects.” He let out a sheepish chuckle, then added hesitantly, “If Mister Grabowski is still interested in making an appointment, that is.”

At that, Percival laughed warmly. “No need to worry. Once his interest is piqued, it’s nearly impossible to shake him off.”

Newt smiled bashfully upon hearing this statement, and nodded, reassured.

“I hope I haven’t made you wait. Are we late for the hospital visit?” The artist asked with slight concern as he recalled the time, to which the doctor shook his head with a chuckle.

“No, we have all the time we need. Actually, I was thinking that before we drive to the hospital, we drop by at Lionel’s apothecary. I just remembered that I have to pick up a few medical supplies and drugs I’ve ordered there.”

“Alright,” Newt said, already curious about what was awaiting him. He realized with sense of jitteriness that now he was going to see of what consisted Percival’s job and what he did as a physician on a daily basis. Percival was slowly starting to share more little aspects of his life, and Newt was more than happy to learn more about him.

With a fluttering feeling in his belly, Newt followed Percival outside until they arrived at the parking lot where the doctor’s Chrysler was awaiting them. It felt like a pleasant déjà-vu as Percival - ever the gentleman - opened the door of the automobile and led Newt into the passenger seat with an inviting gesture, making the artist duck his head in a lame attempt to hide his smile.

It didn’t take long until they arrived at the bustling part of the city, the loud, cacophonous sound of the moving crowds and honking automobiles nearly making Newt’s ears ring to a borderline unhealthy degree. He didn’t dare to imagine how it was for Percival, but the doctor seemed unperturbed as he pulled his car with a faint crease of concentration between his brows into a little free passage between a fire hydrant and another automobile, next to the pedestrian passage.

“We’re here,” Percival announced and pointed one finger at a narrow, aged house which looked like it was jammed between the oppressing girths of two immense office buildings, their towering height making it seem tinier than it already was. 

Despite the first wobbly impression, the house gave off an image of rustic beauty. The windows’ frames were shaped in an elegant art-nouveau style, although the metal arcs were already looking rusty and fractured around the edges. ‘ _Parker pharmacy – drugs & prescriptions_’ was written in sinuous white letters above the entrance, the flakey paint adding another vintage touch to the apothecary’s appearance. It instantly occurred to Newt that the building was a family-owned one and surely expressed a history of many generations.

As Newt stepped with Percival into the pharmacy, the soft jingle of a bell attached above the door announcing their presence, he found he already liked the place. The single room was filled with a multitude of brown and white vials of different sizes with inscriptions that Newt wasn’t able to discern. Each wall was covered with shelves that looked like they were on the verge of breaking apart under the weight of those bottles, yet the room looked cozy and tidy despite the sensation of crammed ‘fullness’ it gave off.

A few ad posters of various medicines were plastered on the glass cupboards beneath the counter, many of them adorning colorful inscriptions that indicated the virtues of said medicines like “ _Protect your voice! - Smith Brothers’ cough drops_ ” or “ _Prevent your seasickness with Mothersill’s Remedy_ ”.

Even though some slogans were a bit exaggerated for Newt’s taste, he found that the posters were still fitting to the general décor. What accentuated the homey feeling was the filtered light that shined through the tinted windows, plunging the pharmacy in a dim comfy light; and the sweet scent of wintergreen flowing discreetly in the air, putting the artist in a state of calm contentment.

Before he could inspect further his surroundings, a door behind the counter swung open and Lionel barged into the room with a groaned “Yes, I’m coming!”. He nearly tripped over his own feet when he recognized his visitors.

“Val! Mister Scamander! I didn’t expect you today,” he exclaimed, the apparent exhaustion in his heavy-lidded eyes disappearing at once. 

“Hey, Nel,” Percival greeted and let out a huff as he was pulled once again into a hug that made his upper-body lean in an uncomfortable angle against the edge of the wooden counter. “I see it’s again one of your busy days.”

“You don’t say,” Lionel harrumphed and stepped back to lean against a cupboard with a loud sigh. “Just got solicited _again_ by those creeps who want to sell me asthma cigarettes; my colleague Ramjeet decided to take a week off because his wife is giving birth, and a patient swallowed his suppository for some weird reason and tells me now that my drug isn’t working. In all, great day.”

Percival made a sound of sympathy and crossed his arms over his chest.

“How are you going to run the apothecary, now that you’re alone? Not that you can’t manage it. I just wondered if you might need some support.”

“It’s fine, Val. I’ll survive, like I always do,” the chemist said dismissively and ignored Percival’s dubious frown as he turned to face Newt with a large grin. “Welcome to my humble place, Mister Scamander. How’re you doin’?”

Newt smiled in response and shook Lionel’s offered hand.

“I’m fine, thank you. Your apothecary is really charming. I like the art-nouveau style on your windows.”

“I knew your artistic eye would catch it. I feel humbled,” Lionel said, genuinely pleased by Newt’s comment. “I’m quite fond of this architectural style. Adds a new touch to this dusty fossil of a house.”

With those words, the chemist clapped his hands on the counter and squared his shoulders, his expression turning mock serious.

“Sooo, what can I do for you, fellas?”

Percival snorted, and Newt could see that he tried not to roll his eyes.

“You know why I’m here. I came for the usual. The syringes for vaccination, bandages, the pills, and my arnica gel--”

“Ah yes, that. I didn’t have the time to prepare the gel yet,” Lionel said a bit sheepishly and scratched the collar of his lab coat. “Now that there are no clients, I can do it right now, if you want. You just have to be patient for thirty minutes.”

“Alright. In the meantime I’ll go buy a few sandwiches. I haven’t eaten this morning.” Percival’s brows creased into a deep frown as he pulled his wallet out of his pocket. “Do you need something?”

“Oh! Bring me a plate of Matilda’s lasagna, please.”

“Ever so greedy,” Percival grumbled, but his eyes looked fond, and he turned around to face Newt with an apologetic smile. “I fear, you have to wait for a little while before we head for the hospital. You can stay here in the meantime while I buy our meals. Or you can come with me…”

Before Newt could open his mouth, Lionel chimed in, “I’m feeling quite lonely here. It’d be great if we could chitchat in my lab while I make Val’s preparation. Time will fly much quicker.”

“Please. You’re only going to annoy him with your crazy ramblings. I know you,” Percival tsked and received an affronted look in return.

“Says the old fart who can’t shut his mouth once he’s had too many working shifts and black coffee,” Lionel sniffed, and Newt had to bite his lip to suppress a chuckle as he observed their banter.

“I’d gladly keep you company, if you want. I don’t mind,” Newt smiled indulgently. He sensed that the chemist was a nice person to hang out with, even when Lionel’s energetic nature still made his inner calm seeking side bristle at times; and also, he seemed to be a close friend to Percival.

Percival’s gaze turned slightly wary as he met Newt’s eyes.

“You’re sure you don’t mind?” he asked and the artist nodded while Lionel rolled his eyes at Percival in a theatrical manner.

“Don’t worry. You go now, bring those sandwiches,” Newt ordered in a playful tone, and a blush spread over his cheeks when Percival huffed in defeat and smiled at him, his gaze softening.

“If you say so…” 

The physician shot at Lionel a warning glare as he made his way to the front door. 

“Try not to behave like a buffoon for once,” he said, and received Lionel’s ‘who, me?’ faux innocent face in return, making the doctor shake his head and exchange one last discreet smile with Newt before he stepped out of the apothecary.

The doctor was barely out of sight when the chemist sighed, “He’s truly smitten with you... Who would guess?”

“Pardon?” Newt asked, a little confused, his heart rate starting to quicken at the chemist’s words.

Lionel’s bright blue eyes turned clouded for a brief moment before he shook his head and observed Newt with a crooked smile splaying slowly on his lips.

“Was just thinking aloud, my apologies. Val is a very withdrawn and stern man, you see. He rarely allows himself to be happy once in a while...” The chemist’s eyes fell on half-mast as they trailed over Newt’s face, as if seeing him for the first time. “I don’t know where you come from and what you did, but-- I see how he behaves around you, and I can tell that he likes you. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him like that.”

“Mister Parker,” Newt began, slightly flustered, his ears burning red as he took in what he just heard.

He felt that there was something else to Lionel’s admission, something simmering between the lines, but his musings came to a halt when Lionel said with an amused huff, “Please. It feels weird when people call me that. Just call me ‘Lionel’.”

“Oh, ah--okay. You should call me Newt, then,” the artist smiled shyly, and the chemist grinned.

“Alrighty, Newt. So…” He rubbed his hands, returning to his vivacious action driven self, and beckoned Newt to follow him, his lab coat billowing like a cape behind his back as he strode towards the door behind the counter. “Let’s start making this arnica gel before the old man gets cranky.”

As they stepped into the laboratory, Newt was hit by the strong smell of acetone, his nose instantly starting to tickle uncomfortably. He barely managed to suppress a sneeze, to which Lionel looked over his shoulder with an amused expression on his face.

“I was cleaning my working space when you both arrived,” he chuckled in apology and went to open the only small window in the room. “I’ve become pretty immune to this odor, so I always forget to ventilate the lab.”

He made a gesture towards a bench covered with worn-out cushions next to the working table.

“Make yourself comfortable. My soda fountain is temporarily out of order, but I have some sweets and tea if you want.”

“I’m good, thank you,” Newt smiled and sat down on the bench, letting his gaze travel along the glass cupboards on the walls. On each shelve stood a series of pots, bottles and other recipients which he imagined contained specific components used for pharmaceutical compounding. Everything was meticulously arranged in alphabetical order and gave an overall image of tidiness, like every apothecary should be. Newt had always expected a lab to be sterile and cold, yet despite the strict orderliness of the room, there was still a comforting sense of familiarity.

The chemist had added a personal touch to his working place by putting little flower pots containing cacti along the windowsill, posters of various ads and multiple photographs scattered along the walls. Before Newt could take a closer look at the pictures, a loud clank echoed through the lab as Lionel placed a giant porcelain mortar and pestle on the worktop, and then aligned various vials and a can of distilled water next to the weighing scale.

Newt became quickly fascinated as he watched the chemist prepare the product with practiced ease, nimble fingers opening vials and mixing components as if they had a life of their own. There was something artistic to the fluidity of Lionel’s movements, and Newt couldn’t help but feel enthralled.

Sensing the apparent interest in the artist’s eyes, Lionel sent him a sideways look and a small smile.

“You want to give it a try?” he asked, handing the pestle over, but Newt shook his head with a sheepish laugh.

“I think I’ll pass, I don’t want to mess it up. I like watching you though.” He looked at the transparent paste sticking on the pestle. “Isn’t arnica used for muscle pain and bruises?”

The chemist made an affirmative hum.

“Yep. ‘Been making this gel for Val since ages. It works pretty well on pain in relation to overexertion and general stiffness. It’s very easy to prepare too. You just need the right ingredients.” He nodded at the contents in the mortar. “The active ingredient of course is a few grams of arnica tincture. You mix it with carbomer while heating the excipients on the Bunsen burner which are methyl-paraben and propylene glycol. The water comes at the very end--”

Suddenly, Lionel stopped and looked slightly ashamed as he let out a tiny chuckle.

“I’m sorry. Sometimes I forget that not everyone understands this chemistry jargon. I talk way too much once I become very invested in something.”

“That’s okay. I feel the same way about my art,” Newt said and smiled reassuringly. “Most of the time I only end up annoying people with my constant ramblings.”

“Finally, someone who understands. Welcome to the club,” Lionel cheered and Newt huffed out a laugh. Newt was a bit surprised to notice how quick he became relaxed in the chemist’s presence, and he found that he rather enjoyed their conversations, although they didn’t know each other. Perhaps it was that carefree and jovial aura emanating from Lionel which made people instantly feel at ease in his company.

Newt reclined on the bench, his head resting on the cushioned backrest as he continued to observe Lionel’s handwork. At some point, his gaze wandered along the pictures hanging on the wall, without really seeing them, and his breath caught in his throat upon stumbling on one particular photograph that attracted his eyes like a magnet.

It was an old picture which looked like it had known better days. The black-and-white paper was crumpled around the edges and covered with yellow blotches, making it difficult at first to see the persons depicted in it. But Newt could recognize those charcoal eyes anywhere. There, on the little square of crumbled paper was Percival, looking much younger and slightly leaner; yet wearing that everlasting serious expression on his face, dark and fierce eyes staring straight at the camera as though it had just offended him.

He was flanked by two other persons who stood close to him like guardians. On his left was Lionel with his trademark crooked grin plastered on his youthful face, posing with a hand on his hip and cocking his head to one side as if daring the photographer to come over. The other man at Percival’s right looked much less self-assured, with the stiff smile and rigid posture of someone who had just been forced to pose for the picture. All three men were wearing a uniform that made them seem older and stricter than their actual age at that time. Each left sleeve of their uniform was covered with a white band on which was depicted a cross, indicating their affiliation to the Medical Corps.

There was a carefree yet still somewhat gloomy aura around this picture, and the more Newt looked at Percival’s young and oh so severe, unwavering eyes, the more he felt an uncomfortable pinch in his gut, as if already sensing the danger that was hovering above the man’s head.

“Val, always looking so grim,” Lionel said with a wry smile, seeming to have noticed Newt looking at the picture. “He has always been such an old soul. I bet that’s how he came out of his mother’s womb. Already aged and grumpy.”

Newt pulled his gaze away from the picture and turned to look at Lionel, his mind invaded by millions of questions, threatening to spill out. He didn’t know if it was safe to inquire about their past; about the time they spent at the war. He sensed that now he was walking on thin ice, its surface on the point of breaking and plunging him into the cold darkness that was Percival’s life. Newt didn’t know if he would be able to handle the dreadfulness that would be thrown at him, or if he would be even welcomed…

Newt didn’t realize that his fingers were twitching again, a slight tremor running down his spine, making him inhale shakily. He studied Lionel’s face. The man seemed to have entered an absent state, blue eyes going downcast as he mixed the paste in the mortar, yet looking at nothing. Silence stretched between them, and Newt wasn’t sure whether he should feel unsettled by it or not.

“Was this picture taken in France?” Newt suddenly sputtered, the question slipping out of his mouth before his brain could catch up, making him panic for one brief moment. 

He didn’t have the time to be mortified though as Lionel halted midway in a dexterous swirl of his pestle, slowly looked up and watched Newt with a dumbfounded expression, ridiculously long eyelashes fanning against his cheeks as his huge eyes blinked several times.

“O--Oh, so Val told you,” he said with what seemed to be like disbelief and awe in his voice. “Yes… it was in Cantigny.”

Seeming to have recuperated from his momentary stupor, the chemist nodded at the picture and said, “That was during our first weeks in this region. We were all so scared but still filled with optimism and willing to help as much as we could.”

“You knew each other since the war?” Newt asked a little shyly, and received a soft chuckle in return.

“I knew Val years before all this nasty shit even started. But Abernathy knew him since they were kids.”

Newt blinked, confused.

“Abernathy…?”

“The man on Val’s right,” Lionel specified and a wistful smile tugged at his lips, a shadow passing briefly over his sunken eyes. “Bless his soul…”

“What? He is--”

“Dead. Yes. It is still hard for us to believe…” 

The chemist sighed and passed one hand through his slicked-back hair, as though debating whether he should go on or not. Finally, he shot at Newt a furtive glance before focusing back on his preparation, stirring the paste more forcefully than necessary.

“He was murdered by someone in our own ranks and nobody did a bloody thing about it.”

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little photograph of a pharmacy from the 20s, I love those old ones so much. :D
> 
> My apologies if there are any inaccuracies.  
> Despite my frustration with my writing abilities, I really enjoyed writing this chapter, and I hope I won't take so much time for the next one. We're in chapter five, and those two nerds haven't even kissed yet, but it shall come, haha. Thank you so much for reading, <3 I hope I haven't disappointed you with this one.


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